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BROKEN LIVES 



CHICAGO: 

T. S. DENISON, Publisher, 
163 Randolph Street. 



AAV*** 


EXPLANATORY INTRODUCTION. 


On reading the will of the late Felix Munro, Esq., 
it was found to contain a reference to certain Memora- 
bilia , “desultory records of which,” the document 
proceeded to say, “ will be found in a package of my 
papers, marked Memoirs .” 

The testator, after saying that he knew not if these 
records possessed other than a strictly private interest, 
proceeds to commit the disposition of them to the dis- 
cretion of his executor, nominating the present writer 
to that trust. 

That Mr. Munro contemplated the publication of 
these records as a contingency, more or less probable, 
there are evidences in the MS. itself. 

After a deal of patient search — for the records had 
been carelessly, or by design, bestowed in an obscure 
alcove — the executor at last fell upon them. 

Not until after much consideration, and having 
taken the advice of others better qualified than himself 
to judge of such matters, did he finally determine to 
cause their publication. It was easily apparent that the 
writings contained accounts of incidents and episodes, 
at once pathetic, stirring, and dramatic. But there 
were also manifest in the style of their composition, a 
crudity, a want of symmetrical structure, and an ine- 
quality in the treatment of the many incidents, which it 
was feared so marred them as a whole, as to forbid their 
publication. There was, moreover, it was thought, in 
the style of treatment of certain of the more tragic of 
these incidents an intensity, which, while natural enough 
in the circumstances of the author, nevertheless renders 
the perusal of the account of them, painful. 

It was, however, believed that notwithstanding 
these defects and faults, these writings yet contained 
such merit, though by no means so obvious as these 

3 


4 


EXPLANATORY INTRODUCTION. 


and other demerits, as forbade their consignment to 
oblivion. 

Brought at last to this view, the executor now, but 
not without many misgivings, lays them before the 
public. 

In doing so, he has not felt at liberty to in any wise 
change the MS., but has left it as it came from the 
hands of his friend, the author. He has ventured only 
to designate as “ Chapters ” those divisions between 
which the author left spaces ; and to prefix to each of 
these, sometimes a sentence, sometimes two or three, to 
indicate in a very general way the subject matter of 
which the chapter treats. 


BOOK 1. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


CHAPTER I. 

OTTO CASTELAR. 

Like all pioneer communities that in which Elsie 
and I were born, had its odd personages and mysterious 
families. It would have been a rare settlement in those 
days of the new West that had not these: Persons and 
families of unknown antecedents and the mystery about 
whose lives was impenetrable. Such people never ap- 
pear to understand that it would be better to tell their 
neighbors the truth, however ugly, since it is usually 
not half so bad as those neighbors will surmise, if left 
to unaided conjecture. 

It was a mysterious family that came into our 
settlement. 

The husband and father was a man in ten thousand 
— a Scotchman of gigantic proportions, brawny and 
hairy as an animal, though his face was handsome and 
of noble aspect. His family comprised several chil- 
dren and a wee wife, as fragile as her lord was stalwart. 
She could not have weighed above ninety pounds, was 
fair of hair, had blue eyes, and skin like that of a month 
old infant. My mother always spoke of her as her 
'‘little pink neighbor.” The voice of this child-like 
creature was low and soft as the purr of a well-fed kitten. 
So my mother used to say, when about to visit her; “ I 
must go over and hear my little pink neighbor pur a 
bit; come along, Felix!” 

The children of this uncommon pair were like 
neither — being like both. 

( 5 ) 


6 


BROKEN LIVES. 


James McAlpin, for such was the name he bore 
while among us, moved into our neighborhood, it was 
said, shortly before my own advent. He sought out 
the most obscure and unlikely site in all the region 
about, where he erected a rougrh stone house and fur- 
nished it in a style to astonish his simple neighbors. 
The three or four rooms abounded in massive bed- 
steads ; great chairs, so heavy that the little pink wife 
could scarcely move them about ; and bureaus, large and 
costly enough to have served in those days a depart- 
ment at Washington. The doors of the dwelling were 
provided with enormous keys, bars and bolts, the only 
things of the kind for miles around ; for in those prim- 
itive days of simple honesty, little was there need for 
these. The wooden latch, with buckskin thong at- 
tached and hanging through an eyelet-like hole, on the 
outside, bidding the visitor welcome, sufficed for the 
other dwellings of the settlement. 

Having provided this home for his family, Mr. Mc- 
Alpin, as I have heard said, disappeared, returning at 
intervals of sometimes months, and sometimes a year, 
for short visits to his family. During these absences the 
family was under the care of a man — William was the 
only name he bore — as mysterious as McAlpin himself. 

Of course, this strange conduct of the Scotchman 
was a fruitful source of speculation and gossip. All 
sorts of mysterious and awful things were whispered 
of him. 

But all this concerns us little, since this family is 
mentioned, only because through it was introduced into 
that humble neighborhood, one, a strange, far-fetched 
exotic, whom this history concerns ; and whose be- 
havior changed the current of other lives, an account 
of which, more or less in detail, dependent on the 
strength a gracious Providence shall vouchsafe to me, 
I shall essay to record. 

During one of the protracted absences of our neigh- 
bor, my father received a letter, bearing a foreign 
stamp and postmarked at a city with an unpronounce- 
able name. A few hours after, the cover was on the 
farm wagon and my father had said : 


BROKEN LIVES. 


7 


u Felix, get on your smartest clothes and be ready 

to start within a half hour to F our county town, 

some fifteen miles away. 

The first railroad of the State was then in process of 
construction, but lacked some forty miles of having 

reached F ; so it was reached then from the end of 

the railroad as constructed, by stage. 

When well on our way, my father said : “ Felix, 

you can read writing, and I am proud of you that you 
can, seeing that there are few youngsters of twelve 
about here that can do as much. I am not just certain 
that I have the , right run of this letter I’ve received 
from some outlandish place, from our neighbor, Mr. 
McAlpin. Try if you can read it for your father.” 

I took the missive eagerly. It was for most part 
written fairly well ; so that by a little study and by 
spelling the harder words, I was able to make it out. 
There was nothing in it to indicate where it had been 
written. It ran thus : 

“My Dear Mr. Munro : — I have just learned that a friend of mine 
died lately, leaving a little son homeless and friendless. I have directed that 

the child be sent to my home. It is to be carried to F and placed in 

the care of the landlord of the ‘F House,’ until called for. Will you 

meet it there, as I shall be unable to reach home in time, as it will arrive 
sometime between the first and fifth of May, and I can trust this matter to 
nobody but yourself. Be good enough to take your Felix along as company 
for the little fellow. 

“ The child’s name is Otto Castelar. His parents were my dear friends, 
though I have never seen the unhappy little waif. I have written to my wife 
on the subject, and that you will bring the child to her. 

“ Very truly your friend and neighbor, 

“ James McAlpin.” 

“ Ah, yesterday was the fifth !” exclaimed my father, 
as I ended. And so it was. 

We reached F in the night, and put up at the 

“ F House.” We learned that on that evening a 

child had arrived, in charge of a woman, and was then 
in the house, though the woman had, after taking leave 
of it with many demonstrations of grief and affection, 
departed on the out-bound stage, within an hour after 
her arrival. 

The next morning I was up betimes, anxious to see 
my future playfellow ; for while nothing had been said 


8 


BROKEN LIVES. 


as to the child’s age, the fact that it was a boy, and that 
McAlpin had suggested that 1 should come along, had 
been enough to fill me with many pleasant expecta- 
tions, and settle in my mind that the “ child ” was a lad 
like myself. 

We were soon awaiting in the sitting room of the 
inn, the appearance of the little stranger, for the land- 
lord had sent to bring him. Presently he walked in. 
My father was as imperturbable a man as one would see 
in a day’s journey, but this apparition so staggered him 
that he uttered an exclamation of surprise, before he 
could arrest it. Then he looked sharply at me. A 
glance sufficed. He saw that I had made the same dis- 
covery as himself. 

The lad was at least a head taller than I ; as straight 
as an arrow, and dark as a Spaniard. His hair, as black 
as a raven’s wing, hung in waves and curls to his shoul- 
ders. But this aspect of the lad, though striking 
enough, did not cause the exclamation from my father. 
That was inspired by the fact, that in every feature and 
expression of his countenance, the boy was the perfect 
image of James McAlpin ! It mattered not that Mc- 
Alpin was the fairest of fair-skinned Scotsmen ; that his 
eyes were blue, while those of the boy were dark as 
night ; that his hair was light and straight, while that 
of the young stranger was raven and curly, and that his 
complexion was ruddy, while the boy’s was bloodless; 
there the lad stood, like an image in bronze of the 
stalwart Gael ! 

We took our breakfast and were presently on our 
way homeward. After the first greetings, the lad was 
persistently silent; but the traditional “dancing master” 
could not have managed his movements with more 
grace. Nor could a courtier have employed politer 
or apter phrase than that in which he saluted and 
thanked my father and myself. There was just a sus- 
picion of a foreign accent in his speech. 

To all my efforts to engage him in conversation, his 
responses were simple yeas and nays, but uttered with 
studied politeness, and with what 1 came to believe, an 
affected gentleness ; though I should not have been 
able to use so fit speech in giving my notion of it. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


9 


Finding that he would not talk, I fell to studying 
furtively his appearance, endeavoring to time my 
observations so as not to appear rude. He, however, 
became aware of my scrutiny, and was scarcely able to 
disguise his annoyance. The more I observed his face, 
the more it impressed me. It was strangely strong for 
the face of a lad of his years, which might have been 
fourteen or more. He at length appeared to grow 
indifferent to my inspection of him, and sat gazing list- 
lessly, with a far off look in his dark eyes, toward the 
distant hills. It may have been the working of my 
boyish imagination, always reckoned too active, but I 
fancied at times that I could see something like an 
expression of cruelty lurking about the corners of his 
mouth. And I am sure I made a discovery of what 
I have always regarded a phenomenon, in this strange 
lad’s eyes. If subsequent observations had not con- 
firmed the impression then made, I should no doubt 
have referred that impression to fancy. But too well, 
alas, I know it was not fancy ! I discovered that he 
had what naturalists call in birds, “ nictitating mem- 
branes.” He appeared to be able at will, to draw this 
misty film over his eyes, as the goose and other fowls 
do, whereby he could effectually hide their expression. 
Afterward I often saw him, at such times as he desired 
to close himself against observers or to make an end 
of inquiry, play this trick. 

If this species of eye were found in such numbers as 
to require or deserve classification, I should with my 
present learning be inclined to name it the “ Anserine 
Eye.” But as this, in my own experience, was an abso- 
lutely unique instance, I content myself with the fore 
going imperfect description. 

At last, tiring of these observations of the stranger, 
I tried again to draw him into conversation. And in 
my sympathy for the lonely lad (for I had observed 
that several times he had sighed deeply, though very 
gently, and I fancied he was recalling the painful part- 
ing of yesterday) I thought to call him by his name, as 
a manner of address best calculated to penetrate his 
reserve. I said accordingly : 


IO 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“ Well, Otto, what do you think of our hills and 
forests?” He turned his gaze upon me, drew the mem- 
branes over his eyes and answered as gently as his 
soon-to-be foster mother, Helen McAlpin herself might: 
“ I am used to being called Master Otto, if you please.” 

Determined not to be put out so, I said : 

“Then, Master Otto, what think you of our hills 
and woods ?” 

Again he turned his eyes upon me, and from behind 
their masque looked to see if I was accepting his sug- 
gestion in good faith, and being satisfied, answered : 

“ They are quite interesting, but do not compare 
with the scenery along the Hudson, nor that along the 
rivers of — ” 

But he did not say what country or place. 

This ended all effort to draw him out. Nor was 
there further discourse, until when within a few miles 
of home, my father explained to him how Mr. McAlpin, 
who had been the friend of his parents, had requested 

us to meet him at F , and carry him to his, Mc- 

Alpin’s home, which my father assured the lad would 
be, he had no doubt, a pleasant home for him. As my 
father said this, the lad gazed at him from behind his 
masque, and I fancied I saw a look of mingled incredulity 
and scorn run up from the corners of his mouth and 
take shelter in his eyes behind that membranous 
barricade. 

For some reason my father did not wish to, himself, 
deliver the boy to the McAlpin household. He, there- 
fore, when we arrived home, placed him in the care of 
my elder brother and myself, to be carried on to his 
destination. 

When, as master of ceremonies, I presented him to 
the good little Mrs. McAlpin, the poor woman staggered 
backward, while her face grew first white, then scarlet, 
and her lips jerked and quivered as if she would break 
into tears. After saluting her in his courtly manner, 
the lad stepped back and deliberately gazed at her from 
behind the curtains which he had again drawn over his 
eyes. 

A few weeks after, when McAlpin had returned and 


BROKEN LIVES. 


1 1 

had called to see my father, I heard him, salutations 
ended, say : 

“ YVell, neighbor Munro, had I ever seen the lad, I 
should have been saved the telling you that blundering 
falsehood. The child is my son! Nature has been 
more generous and faithful to the little fellow than I 
meant to be ; she declines to keep my secret/’ And 
his voice was a little husky. 

Beyond this simple, frank confession, nothing I think 
was ever said on the subject. 


CHAPTER II. 

ELSIE. 

When autumn came and the brief term of school 
opened, Otto, the stranger lad, accompanied his foster 
brother, Bruce McAlpin, thither. But it was directly 
manifest that the wrinkled old teacher could teach him 
nothing ; the lad was already a far better scholar than 
the master. Indeed, it was soon apparent that that 
doughty old tyrant, so ready with his beech where the 
rest of us were concerned, stood in awe of this swarthy, 
youth, with eyes of night and raven hair. But it ought 
in justice be said, that the lad used his power with 
finesse , and so subjected the master to as little chagrin 
as possible, and yet have his own way. 

He and I gradually grew better acquainted, and 
there came to be at length a sort of armed friendship 
between us, that no doubt would in time have grown 
cordial enough, but for what befell. 

Elsie’s father was the chief person of the young 
settlement — its spiritual guide as well as arbiter of all 
those disputes that must needs arise in every commu- 
nity, in respect of material things. Though himself a 
scholar of excellent attainments, having been regularly 
educated for his vocation, Mr. Cradock sent his chil- 
dren to the great log schoolhouse, surrounded by 


12 


BROKEN LIVES. 


forests, to share with his neighbors’ children such 
knowledge as the poorly equipped old master dispensed 
at the reasonable stipend of ten dollars per month. 

It was on the Monday morning of the third week, 
as I yet remember, that Elsie came with her older 
sisters. To me, her advent was as the visit of an angel. 
She was but a few months my junior in age. Our 
parents had all our lives been nearest neighbors and 
closest friends, and neither of us had known any play- 
mate than the other, until old enough to go to school. 
We could not remember when the older children of the 
neighborhood began to tease us about each other; 
while in my father’s household Elsie was known by no 
other name than “ Felix’s sweetheart;’’ a fact of which 
I was vain enough — as what lad of sensibilities and taste 
would not have been, indeed? For a no more lovable 
creature than Elsie can be imagined. Rather tall of her 
age, lithe and supple, with a face fairly beaming with 
intelligence ; dark blue eyes, bubbling full of mirth and 
fine spirits, happy as a bird and looking as ready to fly. 
And withal, such a “ glory ” of golden brown hair as 
kept you wondering how it could by any means be 
tucked away in the quaint, old-fashioned, speckled sun- 
bonnet, in whose depths, if you looked long enough, 
you would see all I have described, besides two rows 
of pearls between rubies — that were just her teeth and 
lips. 

“ Books” had already been called, and I was sitting 
on one of the high, but narrow, rail-like, backless 
benches, by the side of Master Otto, who, if he did not 
like me, cared for no one else. Elsie, going to the cor- 
ner set apart for the wraps of the girls, had deposited 
her speckled sunbonnet, and with a toss of the head 
that settled her golden sea of hair about her shoulders, 
moved with noiseless grace and unshod feet, wet with 
the morning dews, to a seat on the “ girls’ side,’’ and 
near the corner of the room. Then beginning at the 
end next the door on the “ boys’ side,” she glanced 
modestly and swiftly down the long row until our eyes 
met ; a nod of recognition, a smile accompanied by a 
conscious little blush, and she settles down and looks 


BROKEN LIVES. 


13 


demurely at the McGuffey Reader before her, while I 
nod, smile and blush in turn, and then sit swinging my 
feet faster than ever to keep time with the accelerated 
movements of my foolish heart. 

But I am aroused from my blissful dream, by the 
nervous, impatient movements of Otto, whose very 
existence I had for the moment forgotten. I look up 
into his face; its aspect is startling! He is looking 
down upon me, with eyes full of an expression of — 
what? I could not name it then, and since later on the 
reader will know as well as I, I shall not name it now. 
But as I looked full of surprise into his eyes, he seemed 
to remember himself ; he slowly inclosed the baleful 
light with the strange membrane, already mentioned. 
Then, affecting an indifference, and smiling as if to say, 
“Aha! I have detected your secret !” he asked, but his 
voice was perturbed, despite his effort : 

“ Who is she ?” 

I was unsuspecting, as an honest lad ought to be, 
and so answered simply enough : 

“It’s Elsie Cradock.” 

“Your sweetheart,” he added, with an involuntary 
sneer. 

“ That’s what they call her, but we’re just good 
friends, that’s all,’’ I answered, with an embarrassed 
blush. 

“Yes; no doubt!” he replied, still with that spiteful 
sneer. 

No more was said, but more than once I detected 
Master Otto gazing at Elsie with an expression of eyes 
that made my blood leap and set my face a burning. 
And then I would chide myself for begrudging the 
poor stranger lad a look even, at the sweet face. But 
when I would recall the strange light in his eyes, it 
distressed me ; though in my simplicity, I did not un- 
derstand its meaning. 

At noon recess 1 saw that Otto kept pretty closely 
about where I was; a thing unusual. Before this, if 
either sought the other, it was 1 who sought him. But 
I understood, he suspected that I would seek occasion 
to speak with Elsie, and he wished to meet her. The 


14 


BROKEN LIVES. 


* 


rules forbidding the commingling of the boys with the 
girls were rigid, and their infraction punished by the 
lash. That is to say, the master would “ beech ” the 
lads. “ For of course,” he would argue, “ the girls are 
not to blame. They’ll stay to themselves, if you’ll let 
’em. And it’s my business to see that you let ’em,” 
he would add, as he laid about him with his gad. But 
even this rigor was not sufficient barrier, where both 
sides contrived to surmount it. And since Elsie and I 
had been used to playing together from our earliest 
recollection, we could not quite understand the wrong 
of it. The recess was not half gone till we found our- 
selves strolling along the bank of the creek that ran 
through the valley below the schoolhouse. 

“ Who is that black boy that sits beside you, Felix?” 
Elsie, our greeting ended, asked, with a look of repug- 
nance on her face. 

When I had answered, “ I don’t like him !” she said. 

“ Why don’t you like him?” I asked, interestedly. 

“ I don’t like — it’s his eyes, 1 think; I don’t like his 
eyes. They look wicked — like a snake’s. Ugh!” and 
she affected a shudder. 

“ Well, don’t talk about him!” I said, impatiently. 
“Here, we’ve not seen each other for a whole age, 
two weeks at least, and are breaking the rules, too, and 
talking about nothing but this stranger.” 

As I spoke, Otto came from we knew not where, 
into our path, meeting us. In another moment he was 
lifting his hat in salutation. His sudden appearance, 
and the suspicion that he had heard every word we had 
said, so embarrassed me — for the fellow had a strange, 
half mastery over me — that I did not know what 
I was about. But he brought me to, with a look, as if 
he would say: “Why don’t you introduce me?” I 
stammered, “ Elsie, this is my friend, Master Otto Cas- 
telar.” I had never failed since that first acquaintance 
to call him “ Master Otto.” I did not dream then that 
it was a concession to his assumption of superiority ; 
though I think that Elsie with her keener insight sus- 
pected this and declined, both then and after, to bestow 
the deferential title. She greeted him, now by a slight 
but charmingly simple curtsey. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


15 


“ Miss Elsie,” he began, drawing near and lifting a 
handkerchief containing paw-paws and a handful of 
hackberries, “ I have been foraging,” — a new word to us 
— “ in the forest, and shall be delighted to share my spoil 
with you and Felix.” And he selected the ripest and 
most enticing of the paw-paws and offered it to Elsie, 
who shrank back, crying: 

“ Excuse me, please ! I detest paw-paws, of all 
things. Ugh ! Why, a hog won’t eat one ; will it, 
Felix !” 

“ So much the more reason why a nice little lady 
like yourself, should ! There are few things that nice 
little girls and swine eat, in common,” he retorted 
gaily, laughing a strange, low, soft laugh, while Elsie 
blushed scarlet. Then he took a handful of the berries, 
and tendered them. Elsie accepted these and affected 
to be pleased with them. And we turned and walked 
toward the playgrounds. As we drew near, talking 
by starts and pauses, I suggested that we had better 
quit Elsie’s company, lest we should get ourselves 
“ beeched.” 

“/shall do nothing of the kind!” said Master Otto. 
“ I dare old Wrinkles to chastise me!” 

This, though said in the softest of accents, had the 
effect to shock both Elsie and myself. To hear the dear 
old teacher, whom everybody spoke of reverently as 
“the Master,” called “ old Wrinkles,” though his face 
was crossed and criss-crossed with seams, sounded like 
sacrilege ; though we should not, to be sure, have 
known the offence by such name, then. 

Elsie looked quickly at me, while a little, half angry, 
half frightened frown knitted her pretty brows. See- 
ing the effect of his speech, Master Otto laughed the 
same soft, gurgling laugh as he went on, “ Why, you 
children reverence this ignorant old fellow as if he 
were a sage. He’s an old fool, I say ! He teach any- 
body ! Bah !” 

The lad was more than half right. But it sounded 
awful to us, to whom the old man was just “ the Master,” 
and so we were glad enough to part company with the 
blasphemer, which we did at the playground; for I 


1 6 


BROKEN LIVES. 


would not quit Elsie’s side till Otto had, beeching or no 
beeching. 

As we walked homeward this evening, Elsie said 
while speaking of Otto : “ O, Felix, isn’t he awfully 

handsome?” 

“What do you mean, Elsie?” I cried. “ What do 
you mean by using such words ? — awfully handsome! 
Who ever heard the like ?” 

She looked up at me with wide open, astonished 
eyes, and her face full of innocence, saying, “ Why, 
Felix — why — don’t you think him handsome?” 

“O, yes, to be sure; aw — fully handsome!” I 
answered, making eyes. But the next moment I was 
sorry, for Elsie’s chin quivered as if she were about to 
cry. 

I had not wisdom to understand that the dear child 
had spoken of the youth precisely as she might of her 
father’s fine horse, or other well-favored animal. 

There stood on the bank of the creek, near the 
schoolhouse, a great beeclj tree, with wide-spreading 
and far-reaching branches extending sheer across the 
stream, which at that point was narrow, but carrying 
between its high and steep banks water some feet in 
depth. These limbs, by the aid of some of the larger 
boys, had been drawn down to be used by the girls as 
swings, and by means of which they could swing from 
bank to bank, across the stream ; a charming, if hazard- 
ous sport. 

A few days after her first meeting with the stranger, 
it chanced that Elsie, while swinging had, by a false 
start, fallen short of the thither bank, alighting in mid- 
stream. With other lads I was playing ball a hundred 
yards away. Having observed the venturesome nature 
of the sport, and knowing that Elsie was engaged in it, 
and as daring as the next one, I had felt no little uneas- 
iness. Thus it came to pass that when the accident 
befell, and the cries of Elsie’s companions arose, I fairly 
flew to the scene, preceding the foremost of my com- 
panions by some moments. 

Elsie was clinging to the limb, her white face alone 
visible above the water, her lips tightly compressed, 


BROKEN LIVES. 




and her eyes shining like two small stars. T was an 
excellent swimmer and encumbered by nothing but my 
shirt and trousers. Pausing only long enough to direct 
one of the larger girls, who appeared not to have 
entirely lost her head, how to aid me, I plunged into 
the stream. I seized the limb above where Elsie held 
it, and speaking a word of encouragement which she 
answered with a brave look, that I can plainly recall at 
this moment, I began to struggle toward the shore. 
While the current, though luckily by no means swift, 
made the task a difficult one, still I gained at each 
struggle and was soon in reach of aid from the bank, 
and the young lady already mentioned, was preparing 
to render it, when suddenly, as if he had fallen from the 
tree above us, appeared the dark form of Otto, stripped 
to shirt and trousers, and about to leap into the stream. 
I cried to him to take hold of the limb. He paid no 
heed, but dropped straight as a plummet, feet foremost 
into the edge of the stream, when stooping, he seized 
Elsie and lifted her onto the bank, as if instead of a well- 
grown girl of twelve or more, she had been an infant in 
arms. And as he did so he gave me such a look of 
triumph, mingled with hate and contempt, as I had 
never seen in human face before, and as I confess, 
frightened me. 

Elsie’s bonnet had been lost and was being slowly 
borne away, discovering which, and just as I had 
reached the shore, Otto darted quickly past me, 
plunged into the stream, rescued and brought it, and, 
bowing with the air and grace of a cavalier, handed it 
to its bedrabbled and shivering owner; then taking her 
arm, saying that she must go to the schoolhouse and 
dry her clothing, he led her in triumph, away. 

I followed, a little crestfallen but in no wise blaming 
Elsie ; for 1 was sure that she would greatly prefer my 
company. 

But what presently happened put me more than 
even with his officious cavaliership. For when Elsie 
standing by the fire saw me come in, completely soaked, 
the water yet dripping from my clothing, she gave me 
such a look of tender sympathy, and said : “ O, Felix, 

2 


i8 


BROKEN LIVES. 


I am so sorry ! Are you cold ?” at the same time mak- 
ing room by her side for me, in such a way, as filled my 
heart as full of delight as it did Master Otto’s of envy. 
His face grew darker and his eyes were full of a strange 
light which he presently shut in behind that sinister 
membrane. But the next day he was so cordial and 
polite toward me, and frank and open in his treatment 
of Elsie, evincing toward both such simple, good fel- 
lowship only, that I forgot the disagreeable sensations 
his behavior of yesterday had inspired, and was ready 
to be on the most iriendly footing ; (or there was much 
about him when in this amiable mood, to admire. Be- 
sides, he was far above the dead level of the other lads 
of the neighborhood, and — well, perhaps I was too ; 
and so bating our rivalry for favor in Elsie’s eyes, we 
ought reasonably, to have been cronies. 

One other episode ot our school days together, will 
serve to exhibit the characters of the three children, 
whose dramatic, nay, tragic histories in after years, it 
is my purpose to set forth in these memoirs. 

It was the very last of September. The day had 
been as hot as midsummer. To one the least observant, 
there must have been through the whole day ominous 
signs of what was to befall. But the old teacher was 
far too busy beeching refractory lads and sweating over 
yet more refractory sums in vulgar fractions, with 
which some of the larger boys delighted to puzzle him, 
to take note of things external. But as the sun was 
setting — for that luminary never found the master away 
from the schoolhouse — there began to fill the air, gather 
in the sky and to fall upon all the earth, the awesome 
forecasts of a storm. The school was quickly dismissed 
and the children, more than threescore in number, and 
of all sizes, poured through the narrow door, the one 
outlet. Elsie was the only one of the Cradock children 
in attendance this day, a fact I had dwelt on with de- 
light through the tedious hours, for our ways lay along 
the same paths, and it chanced that I, too, was alone. 
By going somewhat out of his way, which he often did, 
Master Otto would traverse the same road with us for 
the first mile or so ; a thing I was sure he would do 


BROKEN LIVES. 


*9 


this evening. For since the incident at the creek, he 
had not abated his friendly behavior, and we were on 
the best of terms. 

As we made our way through a narrow clearing, we 
began to hear in the far northwest the rumbling of dis- 
tant thunder, though the skies above and around us 
were cloudless. Near the earth the air was still and 
stifling, while higher up it was in some commotion ; for 
a hawk sailing with the wind above us, moved with the 
speed of an arrow ; while far above that, careened an 
eagle in the teeth of the storm, while near us again the 
blue jays scurried and screamed, and the ravens croaked 
as they flew restlessly from tree to tree in the deadening, 
and the smaller birds chirruped uneasily as they flitted 
from point to point and at last rose in a body and made 
straight for the shelter of the deep wood. And as we 
reached the forest we heard far up a solemn moan, as 
if the swaying trees were in travail, while the leaves 
near us, nodded and quivered as if shaken with laugh- 
ter ; or turned their veined and corrugated sides up to 
the breeze as if challenging the storm to smite them if 
it dared. And then through rifts in the branches and 
foliage, we saw near the horizon in the northwest the 
rising storm clouds ; some black as ink, others yellow 
and murk, and on the faces of these the lurid, -forked 
lightning played a thousand antics, to be followed pres- 
ently by rolling, bellowing thunder; distant, but the 
more impressive for that. But one thing remained to 
support our courage : the sky above us was still cloud- 
less, and flooding the landscape with that strangely 
beautiful light, which foretells swift and rending winds. 

Otto’s tall, dark figure strode ahead, I next, and 
Elsie at my heels, and all silent as specters. 

Suddenly Elsie plucked my sleeve, saying, under 
her breath: “Felix, listen! What’s that?” 

“ It’s an owl,” I answered, for I heard what seemed 
the distant cry of an owl. 

“ No ; it’s "Cooney!” And as she spoke there came 
in view along the path meeting us, a figure which seen 
under other circumstances would have provoked in us 
no end of merriment. It was that of a great rough, 


20 


BROKEN LIVES. 


freckled-faced, tow-headed fellow, astride a horse so 
small that the feet of the rider, had he straightened his 
legs, would have touched the ground. On his head 
was a crownless hat, through which the tow-like hair 
stood up. The face inspired the beholder with a dis- 
position to scream with laughter. The nose was some- 
thing more than pug; it was “celestial.” The eyes 
were very small, but blinked good humoredly ; the 
lashes and brows were almost white, while the whites 
were pinkish. But it was the mouth that more strik- 
ingly distinguished the face and gave it its character 
and expression. It was enormous, being in fact a hor- 
izontal slit under the pug nose, clear across the narrow 
face, and was simply an indefinable mass of grotesque 
laughter. It was said that even when he wept his 
mouth wore the expression of merriment; and as he 
often laughed till the tears would stream over his face, 
no one was sure that he had cried, ever, in all his life. 
He had halted in front of us, looking as indifferent as 
if the entire heavens were as placid as the narrowing 
space above us. 

“Did mamma send you to fetch me?” queried 
Elsie impatiently, and eyeing contemptuously the rest- 
less pony. Cooney turned his little pink eyes, laughing 
and blinking upon her for a moment, and then began to 
gather his mouth up and bending forward, until his 
round shoulders were yet rounder, he emitted a screech 
in most perfect imitation of the owl that takes its name 
from that peculiar cry, and immediately followed this 
by another in imitation of the “ hoot owl.” 

But Elsie had not been reared in the woods to be 
frightened by owls. She pushed her speckled sunbonnet 
back, and her bright eyes flashed as she said, in scorn : 

“ Do you think I’m afraid of owls?” 

Cooney immediately began to do his mouth up in a 
different but still indescribable fashion, and then ap- 
pearing to draw his head into his body as a turtle will, 
he sent forth a long, wailing scream, so much like that 
of the catamount, that the dog accompanying him cow- 
ered and whined. Elsie was not a little shaken by this, 
but affecting not to be, cried angrily : 


BROKEN LIVES. 


21 


“ I can't ride behind on that sheep ! Why didn’t 
you bring a horse ?” And pushing past the pony, started 
swiftly along the path. I followed. Otto had gone on, 
but was walking slowly. 

Cooney finding Elsie disinclined to ride the pony, 
tried to persuade her. 

“ Yeth, Elthie,” he began, in his imperfect speech, 
“ yer mammy senth me to feth ’e. Turn, honey, and 
gith up ahin’ on ’e pony.” But Elsie only walked the 
faster, and Cooney gave up persuasion and rode on 
ahead, entertaining us sometimes by singing like a bird 
and again by wild cries like quadrupeds, for there was 
neither bird nor beast that the strange, half-witted 
fellow could not imitate. 

But now the clouds had reached the zenith, and in 
five minutes deep darkness had fallen on the earth, hid- 
ing every object save when now and again the light- 
ning flashed for a moment, to be followed by a still 
more appalling gloom. Otto had rejoined us and was 
leading the way silently, followed closely by Elsie and 
she as closely by me. And then began to fall great, 
scattering drops of rain, to be followed in another 
minute by a perfect torrent, mingled with flash after 
flash of blinding lightning, and bolt upon bolt of deafen- 
ing thunder We were in a dense, unbroken forest, in 
one of those beating rainstorms that fall at the au- 
tumnal equinox 

“ Don’t be frightened, Elsie, dear; Otto and I will 
take care of you,” I said, bravely, as I pressed to her 
side and took her hand in mine. 

“I’m not frightened, Felix,” she answered in ac- 
cents low, but brave and unshaken as my own. 

At that moment a flash of lightning discovered a 
familiar great, hollow poplar, with a door-like open- 
ing in it. 

“ Let us take shelter here till the worst is over,” 
suggested Otto, leading the way in. We followed and 
were completely sheltered from both wind and rain. It 
must have been quite an hour before the rain abated 
and a very dim light began to invade the forest. Elsie 
urged that we go forward, which we did, unwisely 


22 


BROKEN LIVES. 


enough, Otto still leading. But we had not gone far 
before it appeared to me and to Elsie too, though 
neither spoke of it at once, that we were out of our 
home-bound path, and bearing too much to the south- 
east, and in the direction of Otto’s home. 

By the dim light nothing looked familiar, and I was 
growing desperate, when Elsie, in the same suppressed 
tones in which she had spoken since the darkness fell, 
but loud enough for Otto to hear, said : “ Felix, we are 
on the wrong path. We are not going toward home.” 

Before I could speak, Otto answered: “ Yes, we are 
off our path,” and stopped, shortly. 

“ Let us go back to the hollow tree and take a new 
start,” I suggested. Elsie agreed, but Otto was silent 
for a moment, then answered very earnestly : 

“ I think I know where we are. If so, there is a well 
beaten path not a hundred yards from here which will 
lead us to the ‘ big road.’ Now you stay here while I 
go find the path, when I will halloo and you can come 
to me. If I fail, I’ll come back and we’ll return to the 
hollow tree and wait till the moon rises.” 

This appeared reasonable, and we agreed, and he 
started. But while I kept up for a half hour a constant 
hallooing, we could hear no response from him, and 
reluctantly concluded that he had deliberately aban- 
doned us. 

We undertook to return to the tree, determined to 
remain there till morning, but we wandered wide of 
our way, and at the end of an hour or more found our- 
selves entering what was known as the “ Hurricane,” 
an area of many hundred acres of uprooted forest, 
grown up in thicket, and more than three miles from 
our homes. I had often been there with my elders, 
hunting game, but we were so completely turned about 
now as to be unable to agree which way home lay, Elsie 
maintaining that it was in one direction, I that it was in 
another. We could do nothing therefore but seek out 
a shelter, for it was still raining, but more gently, and 
await the moon, or if that should not serve, the morn- 
ing. We huddled close together under the trunk of a 
fallen tree ; but Elsie, heated from the long walk and wet 


BROKEN LIVES. 


23 


to the skin from the rain, was soon shivering with cold, 
at whiSi I was sore distressed and bestirred myself to 
mend matters. The blue grass growing luxuriantly 
there, had fallen and lay like winnowed hay. I gath- 
ered great quantities and made a bed or covering suffi- 
cient to protect her from the wind, now sprung up, and 
adding to our discomfort. Though the grass was wet, 
it served very well indeed, and I began to urge Elsie 
to try to sleep, promising myself to remain awake and 
keep guard. She had at length yielded and had dis- 
posed herself as comfortably as she might, when sud- 
denly the night was rent by a scream that would have 
shaken the nerves of a practiced woodsman, and the 
like of which had caused men, armed and knowing 
their way, to draw closer to each other in this same 
“ hurricane.” It was the cry of a catamount, not a 
quarter of a mile away, and, as it appeared to us in the 
very direction we had come. Instantly we were on 
our feet, Elsie clinging to me and shaking from head to 
foot. Nor was she more frightened than I, for I knew 
that the catamount, while not apt to attack, was, when 
it did, as deadly as the panther. Remembering to have 
heard that beasts of prey would not assail the human 
species unless they could spring upon their victim, I 
cast about for some way of escape. Near us stood a 
sapling, grown up after the tornado had swept the 
forest. I knew that ordinarily, Elsie could climb, for 
had we not scaled many a tree together? But I 
doubted her ability, now. 

“ Elsie,” I began, after bracing myself to speak 
bravely, “ Elsie, if we could climb that sapling there, 
we should be in no danger from the wildcat.” 

“ Why, Felix, dear, I can climb,” she whispered, 
totally unconscious of the tender word she had used. 

I led her to the tree and, still doubting, helped her 
as far as I could reach, and she was soon up among the 
branches, which, though frail, sufficed to sustain her 
weight. I followed, and we were soon out of danger, 
though our positions were painful enough. We had 
scarcely disposed ourselves, Elsie some feet above me, 
when the blood-freezing scream arose again, not two 
hundred yards away. 


24 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“ It’s following us !” whispered Elsie. 

Twenty yards away was a naked knoll, dimly visi- 
ble. In a moment Elsie whispered : 

“ Look, Felix ! Yonder it is.” 

And as she ended, the scream arose again, long and 
hideous, and ending in a sort of wail. And then it 
stopped, for it was on the knoll, and sat down after the 
manner of the domesticated feline. From our eleva- 
tion, we heard that wailing scream many times echoed 
and re-echoed. And then presently, and apparently 
far away, it may have been one mile — it may have been 
three, we heard an answering scream. Our enemy 
heard it, too, for it started forward and passed our tree 
without taking the slightest notice of our presence. 

“ It was not following us , after all,” said Elsie, aloud. 
But still we kept for a time our uneasy positions, hear- 
ing ever and anon the screams of our enemy and the 
answering cry of the other cat; the one growing more 
distant and the other, nearer. 

Just as we were about to descend, Elsie, sniffing the 
air, said : 

“ Felix, I smell smoke. I have smelt it ever since I 
climbed up here,” and she bent her gaze toward the 
knoll. Presently she went on in a whisper, again : 

“ I can see the smoke. It’s just beyond "the knoll. 
O, if there is fire there, wont we be glad ?” 

Descending, we made our way to the knoll, and 
sure enough, just beyond was a great, fallen poplar, the 
hollow whereof was all aglow, I had soon gathered a 
sufficiency of dead grass to make a comfortable bed, 
and having brought fagots, had directly a brightly 
blazing fire. But just as we had settled down, and was 
engaged in drying the grass for Elsie to lie on, we were 
thrilled, frozen, for again there arose upon the air the 
scream of a wildcat, followed immediately by that of 
another. Neither of us spoke, but Elsie drew very 
close to me, and if 1 did not hear her brave little heart 
beating, it was my own I heard. 

While we knew that as long as the fire was burning, 
we were in no danger from the hateful beasts, yet we 
were startled and fearful, and kept a sharp lookout, 


BROKEN LIVES. 


25 


peering into the darkness. Presently Elsie, clutching 
my arm, whispered, hoarsely : “ Look, Felix!’' 

Following the direction of her gaze I saw at the 
point where the light contended with the darkness the 
forms ot the two beasts, moving stealthily along with 
their sides toward us, but still observing us furtively ; 
for we could see their eyes like balls of fire, glaring at us. 

I have never been able to understand the reason of 
it, but the moment I saw those glaring eyes, I was 
seized not with fear, but with a savage, reckless daring. 
If the jungles of India had poured all their lurking den- 
izens into the wilderness at that moment, and they had 
set to screaming, growling and roaring in chorus, it 
might have increased my rage, but I do not believe that 
it would have inspired in me the slightest fear. Elsie 
instantly discovered my frenzy and watched my move- 
ments with a scared face. I think she suspected that 
I was about to make some desperate move, for as I 
started toward the brightly burning fire, she laid her 
hand on my arm, saying in a whisper, “ Please don’t, 
Felix !” 

But nothing could have staid me. I seized some 
blazing; brands and, with a scream which Elsie always 
maintained was more terrible than. that of the cata- 
mount itself, I dashed madly at the beasts and in a 
moment was at the very point where we had just 
now seen their glaring eyes, I think that for the 
moment I wanted them to attack me. But they turned 
tail instead, and went crashing through the thicket. 
They must have been frightened, indeed, for they 
usually move, even when running at great speed, noise- 
lessly. Reaching the edge of the thicket, I threw the 
blazing brands high in the air, in the direction of the 
enemy, following them with another scream, the echoes 
of which sounded unearthly. I returned to Elsie feel- 
ing no fear that our foes would return. Whatever else 
might befall, I was sure that those two cats would give 
our camp a wide berth. 

Yielding to my entreaties, Elsie lay down and was 
soon asleep, but before doing so, she came to me and, 
laying her hand on my arm, said, anxiously: 


26 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“ Promise me, Felix, that if the wildcats come 
again, you will not follow them into the thicket.” 

I promised readily enough, for now my fit over, I 
should have been as frightened as herself at their return. 

She had been long sleeping, when I put more fuel 
on and then lay down near her on the bed of grass. 
Not to sleep; I would rest' and keep watch, 1 said to 
myself. But gradually that heaviness which comes to 
the eyelids of tired childhood, and closes them, but 
which often refuses to come to those of the weary and 
heavy-laden man, after middle life, stole over mine and 
wrapt me in dreamless sleep. Once only, as afterward 
I remembered, I had the sensation as of a weight upon 
my chest, but it was only momentary, for I continued 
sleeping. 

The sharp report of a rifle not far away, awoke me 
just as Elsie, awakened by the same sound, lifted her 
head off my breast ; for, sometime during our slumbers 
she had changed her pillow. 

The sun had long since risen. As I arose to a sitting 
posture, Elsie started with a suppressed cry. Follow- 
ing the direction of her eyes, I saw some fifty feet away, 
the dark face of Otto Castelar, his chin resting upon 
his hands as they lay upon the fallen trunk of a tree. 
He was eyeing us furtively. But when he saw that he 
was discovered, he arose and without saying a word, 
went away. Whether he had been since leaving us, to 
his home, not half a mile away, or had followed us in our 
wanderings, we never knew. He never returned to 
the school again ; nor did he and I ever after, during 
his stay in the neighborhood, meet on friendly footing. 

The experiences of this night, borne so bravely, con- 
sidering our ages, by my little companion and myself, 
had the effect to knit our hearts in still closer bonds, 
though little did we dream that an enemy who was to 
be as relentless as death and pitiless as the grave, had 
endeavored to strike his first blow. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


27 


CHAPTER III. 

DEATH OF ELSIE’S FATHER. ELSIE GOES AWAY. 

In the winter following the events just recorded, 
Elsie’s father died, leaving a large family in compara- 
tive poverty. And soon it was rumored that Elsie, 
now thirteen years old, was to be carried away to a 
city in a distant part of the State, to be adopted into 
the family of a maternal uncle, who had recently been 
bereft of two daughters — his only children, one of 
whom had been of the same age, and had borne the 
same name as Elsie. He and his wife had already taken 
a niece of the latter to rear and educate, and the uncle 
now besought the family of my little friend to sur- 
render to him, her custody. He was possessed of large 
wealth, and urged upon Elsie’s afflicted mother, that 
the scheme would relieve her and greatly comfort him 
and ultimately redound to the well-being of the child, 
as it was his purpose to make the two nieces his heirs. It 
was a hard trial for the mother to give up her baby, for 
such Elsie was. 

If she consulted her heart only it cried out against 
it. If she took into the account the interest of her 
child, she felt constrained to accede to the earnest 
entreaty of the uncle. With many misgivings and 
heartaches, the struggle ended in my earliest playmate 
and sweetest friend being borne away. 

Long afterward my mother told me that Mrs. Cra- 
dock had been influenced not a little in her decision, by 
the behavior of Otto Castelar. She had discovered in 
that hot-blooded youth a fierce attachment for this child. 
His conduct had, within the last few months, amounted 
to a persecution of Elsie. This behavior of the young 
Spaniard — for such he was regarded, notwithstanding 
his known paternity — had been so strange and the moods 
of the youth, so varied and singular, a*s to be well cal- 
culated to arrest the attention and excite the alarm of 
even a less thoughtful mother. As for Elsie herself, 
she detested the lad and lived in constant dread of him ; 


28 


BROKEN LIVES. 


which fact appeared to be known to him, and to have 
had the effect to intensify rather than cool, his passion. 

A few days before Elsie’s departure and while prep- 
arations for that sad event were in progress, accom- 
panied by my mother, who loved my little friend 
almost as her own child, I went to take leave of her. 
Elsie was greatly cast down at the thought of leaving 
her home and going so far away, as it seemed to her, 
and was, indeed ; for in those days, a journey of a hun- 
dred miles was more distant and irksome, than would 
be one of a thousand now. At length, and when the 
evening was drawing nightward, we strolled out to a 
woodland, where many a time we had played and 
gathered nuts. We talked much of her going, and cried 
a little, enough to keep each other in heart when we 
should look back to the parting — and I had pledged my 
word, which she knew I would keep, that when I grew 
older, and not much older either, I would come to her 
in the distant city — and we had turned our footsteps 
homeward again, when I saw not far from us, in the 
deep shadow of the forest, the barrel of a gun, project- 
ing above the trunk of a fallen tree. A little closer 
observation discovered the dark face of young Castelar, 
his elbow resting on the log, his chin resting in his 
open palm, while he stealthily watched us. 

Though conscious that I saw him, for I had turned 
about, facing him, he remained as immovable as if his 
head had been, instead, a knot on the fallen tree. Furi- 
ous with rage, I walked straight up to him, being care- 
ful to get in reach of his gun and nearer to it than he 
was, and in a voice shaken by passion, I demanded an 
explanation of his conduct. With the utmost coolness 
he lifted his head, but without rising, and looked me 
steadily in the face. And then the strange mist passed 
over his eyes, shutting in every sign of emotion or pas- 
sion, as he said, as simply as if it had been the very 
truth: 

“ I have been hunting squirrels.” 

“ Otto Castelar, you lie! You have been lurking 
in these woods all day. You are here to spy upon us,” 
I cried in my wrath. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


2 9 


There was a momentary dash of blood in his bronze 
face, as I hurled at him the epithet ; but he simply 
moved toward his gun. I laid hold of it. He stopped, 
and said quietly : 

“ Give me my gun ! ” 

And then, instantly, for the first time, there came 
into his manner an appearance of embarrassment and 
into his voice a tone of indignant astonishment, mingled, 
I thought, with a shade of contempt as he said : 

“ Why, do you think I would use my gun?” 

“ Yes,” I said, “ a fellow who lurks to spy upon peo- 
ple will do worse ! ” 

“ I am not a fellow,” he answered, “ but if you dis- 
trust me you can discharge the gun.” 

Not deigning to do this, I handed it to him, and 
turning my back upon him, took Elsie’s hand and led 
her away. 

In a voice tremulous with emotion, he said in low 
but distinct accents, as we walked on : 

“ Miss Elsie, will you not say even so much as 
good-bye, to me?” 

Half in fear, half in pity, Elsie turned about, saying 
softly, but not looking at him : 

“ Good-bye, Mr. Otto.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

DEATH OF FELIX’S FATHER. DEPARTURE OF THE 
MYSTERIOUS FAMILY. FELIX TAKES LEAVE OF 
HIS MOTHER. 

Time had flown, as it fleeth ever, suffering no boy 
to remain such. A period of six years has gone by 
since that summer evening, on which I had taken leave 
of Elsie. These years were filled with such common- 
place events as befall the struggling poor, engaged in 
the hard task of subduing a wilderness. Such inci- 
dents only as were calculated to give color to the web 
of our story, will be mentioned in these memoirs. 


30 


BROKEN LIVES. 


About two years after Elsie’s departure, and on an 
occasion, when following a long absence, McAlpin was 
visiting his family, an officer of the United States, with 
a posse, and bearing a writ, it was said, from the Federal 
Court in Tennessee, made a descent upon our peaceful 
and law-abiding neighborhood. It soon transpired that 
the arrest of McAlpin, on some grave charge, but what 
was never known, was the object of this visit. But get- 
ting wind of the officer’s approach, he sought cover in 
the dense thickets of the “ Hurricane.” And the emis- 
sary of the law was obliged to return without his pris- 
oner. Nor was McAlpin ever seen in the neighbor- 
hood after. And some months later the mysterious 
“ William ” appeared and carried the family away, my 
enemy, Otto Castelar, with the rest. 

When 1 was seventeen, my father generously sent 
me to school — a college it was called — at our country 
town. None of the elder children of our household, 
for, like Elsie, I was the baby of the family, had enjoyed 
other advantages for an education, than those afforded 
in the log schoolhouse, under the tutorage of the old 
master already mentioned. But I had heard from time 
to time, through the kindness of her mother, who had 
visited her once and constantly received letters from 
both her and the uncle, of Elsie’s progress and of how she 
was reckoned the brightest and most promising pupil, 
in the famous school for girls, of which the city of 
Terra Alta, where she resided, boasted. And this 
made me chafe the more, under the rather hopeless 
limitations which met me at every turn. My mother 
saw this and I have never doubted, pleaded my cause 
with my father, with such effect that he overwhelmed 
me one evening, by announcing his willingness to send 
me away to school. 

I went with a heart full of joy and gratitude, and 
teeming with thoughts of Elsie, in the distant city. 
But my career in college, though full of promise, was 
short-lived. For in the next spring, in the midst of the 
first year, my father died. And thus it came to pass 
that the name “ Felix Munro’’ stands in one single an- 
nual catalogue of the college ; and in that, under the 
legend, “ Preparatory Department.” 


BROKEN LIVES. 


3 1 


And now, at nineteen, I must go, and indifferently 
equipped as I felt myself, with my nonage against me, 
as nonage in those days was, more than now, and seek 
employment as a teacher. For while my father had by 
such toil as wore his life out before he had reached 
fifty-two years, acquired a goodly estate in land, still it 
would not more than suffice to employ my elder broth- 
ers, none of whom thought of other vocation in life 
than that to which we had all been bred. I had helped 
through with the summer’s work, and now I must speak 
to mother. I had chosen not to add to her other sor- 
rows the contemplation of my leaving her. I would 
not speak of my purpose till the last. Having read 
that “ a prophet is not without honor save in his own 
country,” I had determined to seek my fortune among 
strangers. 

One evening as we sat under the spreading branches 
of the great old apple tree, where in my babyhood I 
had played at her feet, and where in later years I had 
been accustomed to sit and read to her at evening tide, 
I said : 

“ Mammy, the harvest is over and the remaining 
work does not need my hands — ” But somehow, 1 
could not go on, though I needed not to say more ; for 
after a moment, my mother having sighed deeply, but 
with a voice steadier than my own had proved, said : 

“Yes, Felix, I know. You must leave me.’" 

“ But how did you know it, mother? I have never 
mentioned my purpose to a living soul !” I cried, 
astonished. 

“ O, I have known it all summer, child. I have 
known it from the way you would at times look at me,” 
she answered, quietly. And it was true. Uncon- 
sciously, I had betrayed to her mother-eye and heart, 
all that was in my mind and which I was all the while 
supposing was such a secret. It was well ; it saved me 
a painful task. 

“ I know that this way of life is not suited to you, 
my son ; nor you to it. I have known this all along — 
ever since you were a little boy — a baby, I might say.’’ 
And her voice faltered a little now. But she went on : 


32 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“It’s better so. Where do you think of going ?” 

I mentioned the place, in a distant part of the State. 
A former college friend had interested himself in my 
behalf, and I was assured of employment. After look- 
ing thoughtfully at me for a moment, she asked : “ Is 

that nearer the city of Terra Alta?” 

“ Many miles nearer, I am happy to say,” I answered. 

“You will most likely go to see your Elsie before 
you come back to your mother?” she said. 

“My Elsie, mammy?” I cried, a little abashed, yet 
not a little vain at the thought. 

“ Yes, your Elsie, Felix ; heart and soul yours, unless 
she has changed since going to the great city. And 
it’s not like her family to change. The Cradocks are a 
steadfast people,” she said softly. 

“ No, no ; she’ll not change !” I cried, in my excite- 
ment at the mere suggestion, not thinking what I said. 

She laughed quietly at my enthusiasm, but only 
said : “ They do change sometimes, my son.” 

And so they do. 

In a few days I was ready to take my leave. My 
mother accompanied me to the gate, where, kissing her 
good-bye, I bent my steps northward along the great 
road, carrying in a small carpet bag all my material 
earthly possessions. But the hopes that swelled my 
heart and the courage that buoyed my spirits were too 
great to have been contained in many carpet bags. 

As I turned to go, my mother said : “ Remember 

your father’s integrity and courage, my son !” And 
then, in a moment she added : “ Not that I distrust 

you, Felix.” 

Every few paces I looked back. She was still gazing 
after me. Many, many years have flown, some on swift 
and some on lagging pinions, since that day ; yet, plainly 
as then 1 can see that blessed face as it watched my re- 
treating form. At length I had reached a curve in the 
road, beyond which, the gate, mother and home would 
be no longer visible. I turned for the last time. But 
her head was bowed, her face was in her hands, as they 
rested on top of the little gate. 

For a moment my courage faltered ; for a moment I 


BROKEN LIVES. 


33 


felt as if I must go back and take my mother in my 
arms and say : “ You are dearer than ambition ; dearer 
than my hopes. I have come back to stay with you.” 
But behind this, was the consciousness that more than 
half her pride and hope in me, arose from her faith in 
my fortitude and courage. 

More than an hundred miles of unknown road lay 
between me and my destination, for I was going to 
one of the northernmost counties of the State ; and the 
reader, by a glance at the map of his country will see, 
that the Hoosier commonwealth is uncommonly long 
from south to north. 


CHAPTER V. 

FELIX ARRIVES AT TERRA ALTA, AND WHAT BEFELL. 

Another year has fled ; a year which at its beginning, 
I should gladly have seen omitted from the tide of time 
and have leaped the chasm at a single bound, so long- 
ingly had I looked forward to — the reader knows what 
event. During this year, at the beginning of which I 
had taken leave of mother, 1 had taught some, wrought 
with my hands on the farm some, and read not a little 
law, and to some purpose, I may say. And now, on a 
sunny evening in September, I am drawing near the 
city — Elsie’s city — along the winding banks of what, to 
my untraveled eyes, seemed a great river. In the same 
carpet bag that the reader saw a year ago, and carried 
on a stick across my shoulder, are again all my worldly 
possessions, except a remnant of money earnings in my 
pocket, and which though in coin, adds little to the 
burden of this journey, made like the other, on foot. I 
reflected now, with no little pride, that among my 
effects in the carpet bag, was a well-fitting suit of brown 
tweed, made by the sole tai or of the village near which 
I had taught and wrought. 

3 


34 


BROKEN LIVES. 


The dust along the river road was deep, and stirred 
by much travel, mingled with the Indian Summer mist, 
now lifted in air, causing the sun in the western sky to 
appear as a great red wheel, hanging on invisible axles, 
while the distant spires and steeples arose in dim out- 
line, like specter arms, piercing the sky. As I beheld 
these and the smoke in the hazy distance, rising lazily 
from a thousand chimneys, and hovering above the 
city, I was possessed by a sense of awe. 

The reader will recall that the largest town I had 
seen hitherto, was our frontier county seat, a village of 
five hundred souls. For in my journey a year ago, I 
had, conscious of my homespun and humble appear- 
ance, been foolish enough to take a somewhat longer 
road to avoid passing through the capital of the State, 
which lay in my direct route. 

And now I am drawing near to the great city, with 
its twelve thousand people. And Elsie is one of this 
teeming multitude ; the thought of it ! Elsie, whom I 
have not seen for more than seven years ! 

Suddenly I begin to meet at short intervals, bug- 
gies and carriages, and in these, twos and fours of gay 
and laughing young people ; and dressed ! I had been 
troubled with small weakness for fine clothes, but had, 
as what rural lad has not, imagined urban apparel ; but 
in the wildest flight of fancy, I had never conceived 
anything comparable to what I now saw at every turn. 
The only pictures, even, of fine apparel, I had seen, ever, 
were those in the family Bible, of some of the patri- 
archs, and of an angel or two on a visit to one of them, 
— Abraham, I believe, on an occasion. And these all 
appeared to have been clad in purple and fine linen, 
worn loose. There was nothing in these long, loose 
garments by which to gauge my imagination, so as to 
take in the close fitting coats and trousers ; the low-cut 
vests, the glossy shirt-fronts and the quaint and hand- 
some hats which I now beheld. For the patriarchs and 
angels did not, according to our family Bible, wear 
shirts, nor indeed trousers ; and as for hats, skull caps 
were the st)de of the times, and few appeared able to 
afford these. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


35 


I quickly saw that my poor little brown suit of 
tweed, which I had thought so smart, would dull, in 
the presence of such outfits, into an obscurity, from 
which nothing, not even a handsome wearer, could 
rescue them ; and I was esteemed a comely youth, and 
think it no shame as an old man, now, to say that that 
esteem was well grounded. Another fact I discovered, 
which to have known a year ago, would have saved me 
going several miles out of my way, to avoid passing 
through the capital, namely : that these happy young- 
folks passed me by without so much as looking at me; 
indeed, I do not think that they saw me at all. 1 soon 
learned that a travel-stained youth might pass along 
every street in that cit/, and so long as he forebore 
treading on people’s toes, not attract the slightest 
attention. 

When I first began to meet these young people, my 
heart gave a great leap and appeared to be trying to 
get up into my throat. “What if Elsie should be 
among them ?” I had asked myself. And I began to 
think of cutting across lots to avoid her seeing me. 
“ Why ?” I don’t know. But if those whom I had 
already met took such small heed of me, why should 
she observe me ? For in outward aspect, I was no 
longer the Felix whom she had known. She had 
known a slight, thirteen year-old lad, of fair face, like a 
girl. The Felix Munro, walking with such tired air 
along the dusty road, was a stout, manly looking fellow 
of twenty years, with full, sun-browned face, large 
hands and feet, and wearing a moustache, which, aided 
by accumulated dust, made no small show under his 
aforetime pug, but now, comely Grecian, nose. Besides, 
the hair on the head of that Felix was light in color and 
cropped short ; while that on the head of this dusty 
traveler was quite dark and had been suffered to grow 
until it hung about his shoulders. 

But I had reached the suburbs, when suddenly there 
arose on the still evening air, apparently fifty yards 
away, a perfect babel of sounds. Yells of laughter, 
mingled with oaths ; words of command, braying, and I 
know not what. I had not outgrown my boyish curi- 


3 ^ 


BROKEN LIVES. 


osity — and for that matter have not yet — so I bent my 
steps toward the source of the tumult. I found such a 
motley group of youths, from my own age down to ten 
years, as I had never before seen the like of. In the 
center was a tall, lank figure, apparently six feet in 
height, not badly but oddly dressed. He had been riding 
an “ Indian pony,” but had dismounted or been un- 
horsed, by the mob. As I neared the scene, one larger 
than the rest and appearing to be leader and master of 
ceremonies, cried: 

“ Now, d — n you, bray !” 

And the uncouth figure began, while the motley 
crowd about him held their hands, palms forward 
against the sides of their heads and waved them in 
chorus, in perfect time with the braying. This per- 
formance ended, the master of ceremonies commanded 
the figure to flap his wings and crow. He obeyed, ap- 
parently without protest, his persecutors flapping their 
wings in chorus again. The next command was difficult 
of execution, and the fellow demurred. 

“Where have I heard that voice before?” I asked 
myself, on hearing him speak. I drew near, until I was 
mingling with the crowd. 

“ Git down ; down with ye !” commanded again the 
master of ceremonies. 

“ Now, boys, lemme go ; ’e cows’ll get ’way,” whim- 
pered the fellow. At this the leader turned toward 
three or four of the largest of the rabble and in well 
affected tones of authority, commanded : 

“ Do your duty, men !” Whereupon they seized the 
tall figure and threw him to his hands and knees. As 
they did so, the slouch hat worn well down over the 
fellow’s face was knocked off, enabling me to see his 
countenance, when to my amazement, I discovered that 
it was “Cooney ” Redwine, the former protege of Elsie’s 
father, and the devoted slave of Elsie, herself. 

A thousand memories crowded into mv mind, and 
all at once I found something very like affection for 
this uncouth and half silly fellow springing up in my 
heart. I knew why, and on whose account, Cooney 
had made his way to the city. I determined to rescue 


BROKEN LIVES. 


3 7 


him, but to do so if possible by moral suasion ; means 
which, having- used on rural lads, I thought far more 
effective than I found it, when I came to invoke its aid 
in dealing with city miscreants. But before I could 
carry this benevolent purpose into effect, one of the 
assailants gave Cooney such a brutal kick as threw him 
onto his face, wounding it till the blood streamed from 
it. I have always possessed the infirmity of a quick 
and violent temper. Indeed, with a little encourage- 
ment, I should, no doubt, have been quite a savage. 
At sight of the effect of this cowardly act, I sprang to 
Cooney’s side and flourishing my stick, cried : “ Stand 
back and leave this poor fellow alone, you cowardly 
devils !” 

They stood back for the moment. But as 1 turned 
to lead Cooney, stunned and bleeding, toward his pony 
of which one of the mob had taken possession and was 
now astride, they surrounded me and set up such a 
braying, waving their ears in chorus again, as would be 
incredible to one not acquainted with city hoodlums. 

Still I was managing my temper fairly, until the 
master of ceremonies came up in front of me and with 
an impudence and an expression of countenance that 
would have provoked a saint, made such outcry, wav- 
ing his “ears” meantime, as completely upset my self- 
control. And I presently gave him such a blow with 
my stick across the side of the head as put an end to 
his asinine performance, and stretched him on the 
ground as if dead. 

As ill luck would have it, at this moment a police- 
man made his appearance and proceeded with the usual 
shrewd discrimination of his kind, to arrest me, only . 

Thus it came to pass that after all my roseate antici- 
pations, I made my advent into the city of Terra Alta 
in the custody of an officer, and followed by a motley 
mob of hooting miscreants, and was committed to the 
station house, w here on a slate the faithful guardian of 
the peace made this entry : “ Unknown.” (I had re- 

fused to give my name.) “ Assault and battery with 
intent to kill.” 

It was now dark, and here I was in the prison of a 


33 


BROKEN LIVES. 


strange city. I was told by the officer that I might put 
up twenty-five dollars as surety, and go till morning. 
But having seen the entry on the slate, I answered with 
no little spirit and indignation (1 did not have so much 
money): “ What! you charge me with a felony and then 
offer to turn me out for that sum? You want to rob 
me! You shall not do it! I demand that you goto 
Colonel Townshend and tell him that a son of an old 
friend is in prison, guilty of no offence.” 

The officer appeared to hesitate, but at length said : 
“ I can do nothing for you unless you give me your 
name.” 

“ You’ll learn my name to your sorrow before you’re 
done with this business !” I cried. 

My manner and speech took effect ; for I heard him 
mutter : “ I guess I’ll do it, as he appears to be a pretty 

brisk young ’un. v And I could not guess to whom he 
addressed this speech, unless to his Satanic majesty, 
whose imp I was quite ready to believe him. Seeing 
him about to start, it occurred to me to send a note to 
the Colonel; which I did, as follows: 

“Colonel Townshend: — The young man who 
wrote you some months ago, asking leave to become a 
student of law in your office, has been arrested and is 
now in the prison of your city, though guilty of nothing 
of which he or his friends need be ashamed. Will you 
come to see him at once?” 

The good man came, and after greeting me warmly 
and hearing my story, turned upon the officer, saying, 
sharply: “Were you aware of the facts before you 
arrested this young gentleman?” throwing some em- 
phasis on the last word. The officer admitted that I 
had stated the facts correctly. 

“And yet, you have ‘ slated ’ him as a felon?” cried 
the lawyer with flashing eyes. And he proceeded with 
a good deal of vigor to expunge the entry from the 
slate. 

I was released on the word of my new-found friend, 
who urged me to become his guest. But this 1 de- 
clined, not however without feeling deeply moved by 
his generous behavior. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


39 


Colonel Townshend, at this time in the prime of life, 
had years before lived in our part of the State, and had 
been our representative in Congress, my father having 
been his steadfast friend. I had during the last year 
remembered that he was now a resident of Terra Alta, 
and had written informing him who I was, and asking 
the privilege of pursuing my studies with him. He 
had answered warmly, inviting me to come on ; an act 
of generosity which I am vain enough to believe, he 
never regretted. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A LAWN PARTY. 

I found a modest boarding house and resolved to 
enter at once upon my studies. But I must see Elsie 
first. She was ignorant of my arrival. For while the 
incident just recorded was served up the next morning 
in the daily paper, 1 was spoken of simply as a stranger, 
who chanced to be passing through the city. Nor was 
my behavior blamed, but rather commended. I know 
not if my generous friend was in any wise responsible 
for this. 

Had I on any other account wished to learn the 
place of abode of Mr. Hugh Downs, Elsie’s uncle, I 
should have asked any one I chanced to meet for the 
information But I shrank from making any inquiry, 
just as if anybody would at once know my secret, if I 
ventured to do so. 

1 tried by several stratagems to compass the infor- 
mation, but they all proved unavailing. At length, 
with no little trepidation, I ventured to make the nec- 
essary inquiries of Colonel Townshend, feeling the 
while that I was betraying the secret which I had so 
carefully guarded through all the years. I was almost 
frightened at learning that Mr. Downs’ home was the 
splendid place, almost princely as it appeared to me, 


40 


BROKEN LIVES. 


that in my strolls about the city I had so much admired, 
and which stood, as I had already learned, in the most 
pretentious part of the city. 

“ How am 1 to summon sufficient heart to go to 
that grand house?” I asked myself, again and again. 
On the second evening, however, I did, after twice 
turning back when within two squares of the place, 
pluck up sufficient courage to go on. Not that I had 
any thought of stopping. 1 would, I said, walk past in 
the hope that perchance I might get a glimpse of Elsie, 
for I was sure I should know her among a thousand. 
How my heart beat, as I approached the beautiful 
grounds, comprising quite a square! 

As 1 drew near i heard many voices mingling with 
happy laughter. And when I came to a point at which 
I could look past an angle of the great house, there 
arose upon my vision a scene surpassing in brilliancy 
anything I had ever imagined of Fairy Land. More 
than two score quaintly, but gaily dressed boys and 
girls, but called here, “ young ladies and gentlemen,” 
were assembled in the midst of a scene of fountains, 
flowers and shrubs. Yonder a group sang to the ac- 
companiment of a stringed instrument, while here in 
the foreground strolled arm in arm others, the murmur 
of whose voices added to the charm of the music of 
the singers. 

My heart almost stood still at the thought which 
possessed me. flow could I hope for a place among 
tfuse? And above all, how expect that in the midst of 
such associations and scenes Elsie yet carried in her 
heart and mind any thought of me. If any recollection 
of what now, more than ever, appeared to me the 
happy past, remained, it was surely no more than a 
childish reminiscence, to be laughed at. Slowly I 
walked past, furtively scanning each visible face in the 
vain hope of finding that one I had seen in an hundred 
visions of the night, and in a thousand daydreams. For 
year after year I had imagined accessories of beauty 
and maturity in the bright, sweet face I had known; so, 
keeping pace with nature in her perfect work of growth 
and development. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


41 


I walked on and on, until I bad left the city. The 
full-orbed moon was lighting up the landscape and 
touching the distant domes and steeples, when I turned 
about. The night was a perfect one — warm as summer. 
When in sight of the grounds again I saw that the com- 
pany still lingered, and that they were engaged in some 
outdoor game in which balls were used. This was 
quite new to me. I had many a time played the de- 
cidedly masculine game of “Town ball,” and the like. 
But the delicate and fragile girls of this happy company 
would have been as safe in the battle of Waterloo at 
two P. M. of that bloody day, as in the hardy sports to 
which 1 was used. But here was a game of ball in 
which the girls were actually participating; and with 
much apparent zest, for their glad voices, in speech and 
laughter, rang out on the solt night air. 1 slackened 
my pace and began to listen with keenest interest at 
the sound of each voice, hoping to hear hers. For 
surely I should not fail to detect its lightest accent. 
But 1 listened and looked in vain. 

In front of the grounds in the deep shadows of a 
spreading maple, I stopped. While almost invisible 
myself, 1 could see every movement of the players. 
And as I began to reduce the moving throng to some 
order, I observed standing apart and not engaged in 
the active sports, two forms in white. And soon my 
gaze becomes fixed upon one of these. This figure, 
beautiful and motionless as a draped statue of Parian 
marble, was tall — too tall, methought — lithe and grace- 
ful, with a world of brown hair falling down upon a 
fleece-like shawl which covered her shoulders. But I 
could not see the face ; and if the figure conversed, it 
was in tones so low as to be inaudible, where I stood. 
But while my gaze is fixed intently upon the statue-like 
form, a player suddenly, improvidently hurls a ball 
high in the air and it falls not far from where I stand, 
and rolls over the carpet-like lawn to within ten feet of 
me. The two figures turn and spring quickly forward 
to capture it. As they fly toward me the companion 
figure throws a hand back to impede the swift move- 
ment of the other, pressing closely upon her, when clear 


42 


BROKEN LIVES. 


and distinct the voice of the other cries: “There; 
that’s not fair play !” 

I staggered back and leaned against the tree; it was 
the voice of Elsie ; though in her face, imperfectly seen, 
there was little trace of the Elsie of old. 

The companion reached the truant ball, stooped, 
lifted it, and was flying back toward the players with 
her prize, leaving Elsie, who, finding herself beaten, 
had slackened her pace and was slowly turning about. 

In certain exigencies, one never knows why one 
does a thing ; one simply does it without stopping to 
analyze the method or the motive of it. 

While almost gasping for breath, and when the fig- 
ure had turned about and was moving away, I uttered 
in a tone I should not have recognized as my own, the 
name — “ Elsie.” 

As a fawn upon its native hill when it suddenly 
hears the bay of the hound, stops in midstep with up- 
lifted foot, so stayed this retreating figure now. 

More than a quarter of a century has passed, and 
the vista is dim in many places; and on either side of 
the way are graves and mounds, and monuments, not a 
few, but that figure at the distant end, standing with 
hands clasped in front of it, the body slightly bent for- 
ward as if in the act of uplifting the foot, which rests 
upon the toe ; the head turned half about, in the atti- 
tude of listening, so that the profile is clearly visible, 
as motionless as if cut in fadeless marble, it had stood 
so for ages — this shall never grow dim until the impen- 
etrable veil shall fall, which closes forever the avenues 
of mortal memory. 

“Speak again, Felix, speak!’’ was my speechless 
cry. 

“ Ah, fool, coward, she is gone !” I said, chiding 
myself. For swiftly the figure had moved on. 

I saw Elsie rejoin her companion, and hand in hand 
they walked apart from the rest, and I could see that 
they conversed earnestly and was sure that they were 
speaking of what Elsie had heard, for they ever and 
anon bent their gaze toward where I stood in the 
shadow. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


43 


I felt as powerless to move as I had been to speak 
again. I could see that the two were nervous and 
fearful, for they continued to move about and peer into 
the shadow as they drew nearer and nearer. Now 
they are within ten feet of me. They pause and look 
eagerly (but ready to fly) straight at me. I essayed to 
move forward into the light, but was powerless. For 
the moment I despised myself. And now they slowly 
turn from me, and are about to return to their com- 
panions, when my coward tongue again pronounced, 
in the same strange tone as before, the name, “ Elsie/’ 

They fled like startled birds, nor stopped until they 
were in the midst of the players. I saw that I must, if 
I would not be discovered, move on. I did so swiftly, 
keeping well within the shadows of the trees. 

That night in my dreams I pursued a phantom fig- 
ure in white, that to me was Elsie, but to whom, try as 
I might, I could not be Felix. And then in the vain 
pursuit, I found that I had been lured into tangled 
thickets which I was unable to penetrate, but through 
which the phantom in white glided unhindered. And 
then, from near where the figure had stopped, and as if 
listening, stood, there arose the scream of a catamount 
— for lo ! we were in the forest again. And I saw the 
beast upreared ; and its face had the seeming of the 
face of Otto Castelar and it barred my way to the figure. 
And while I struggled painfully onward, I heard, sud- 
denly, the angry roar of approaching waters, that in a 
moment more gathered on their swelling flood the 
phantom form and bore it from my sight, while there 
arose above the roar of the waters, piteous cries of 
despair. And in perplexity and terror, I awoke. 

So much had I been affected by these scenes, wak- 
ing and sleeping, that when the next morning I met my 
preceptor, he exclaimed: “ Why, Felix, are you ill?” 


44 


BROKEN LIVES. 


CHAPTER VII. 

BIDDEN TO TEA. MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS. 

I was not ill, but try as I might, Blackstone, never 
interesting to the beginner, though I believe still per- 
sistently placed by preceptors in his hand, was this 
day “ all Greek.” 

About noon there came in a reporter for a morning 
paper, to whom my preceptor introduced me, and un- 
wittingly I underwent my first “ interview,” an incident 
not worthy to have been recorded, but for what 
followed. 

In the next issue of the paper appeared this 
paragraph : 

“ Colonel Townshend has taken into his office a young gentleman, a Mr. 
Munro, the son of an old-time friend; and it transpires that this young gentle- 
man is the stranger committed to our prison some evenings since, for admin- 
istering a richly merited chastisement to a young ruffian, found abusing an 
eccentric fellow who lives with Mr. Downs. By the way, we heard quite an 
interesting story in this connection. This fellow who goes by the odd name 
of ‘ Cooney,’ and who is not esteemed overly bright, was reared in the family 
of Miss Cradock, Mr. Downs’ niece. Some years since, as many will 
remember, Miss C. came here to live with her uncle. It is said that 
‘Cooney,’ who had been devotedly attached to the girl from her infancy, 
grieved so at her absence that he finally, in the hope of finding her, wan- 
dered away from home, and was never heard of more, until when about a 
year ago he appeared at the house of Mr. Downs and inquired for ‘ Elsie,’ 
as he called the young lady. Miss Cradock recognized him as her old-time 
friend and protector. And the poor fellow was so overjoyed at seeing her, 
that he could scarcely be restrained from taking her in his arms.” 

In the forenoon of the day on which this paragraph 
appeared, a well dressed, rather stout and most benev- 
olent looking, elderly gentleman walked into the office, 
and after shaking hands with the Colonel, turned about 
and looked curiously at me, his great, kindly eyes fairly 
beaming, observing which, my preceptor said : 

“Mr. Downs, let me introduce my young friend 
and pupil, Mr. Munro.’’ 

Kindly as was the conduct of the visitor, I had 
never in my life been so put out on being introduced 


BROKEN LIVES. 


45 


to a man. My behavior was so remarkable as to sur- 
prise and vex Colonel Townshend. But Mr. Downs 
appeared to take no notice of it, though he must have 
seen my confusion. He came toward me, exclaiming : 

“ Ah, and this is Felix Munro, the playmate and 
school-fellow of my niece, Elsie ; if, indeed, we have not 
here a case of mistaken identity — eh, Mr. Munro?” 

I managed to assert my self-control, and to answer 
fairly well: “Yes, Mr. Downs, I have the honor to 
have been both the playmate and school-fellow, in our 
childhood, of your niece, Miss Cradock.” 

“ Good ! Splendid !” he cried. “ She was sure it 
was you, and wouldn’t let me rest till I should come 
along and see.” And then turning to my preceptor, 
who by this time understood my conduct of just now, 
he went on : “ Ah, Colonel, you have a rare boy here 

— leastwise my niece thinks so ! She tells some capital 
stories of your joint adventures,” he continued, turning 
again on me, meantime retaining his hold of my hand. 
“ I reckon you have not forgotten your night in the 
woods ? Elsie hasn’t, I can assure you. I heard her 
recount it all to some young people the other evening. 
Why, Colonel, it’s as good as a novel, and all true! 
Lost in the thickets of the uprooted forest, all night; 
catamounts and all that ! O, it’s a rare, good story !” 

By this time 1 had regained my composure, so far 
as my introduction to him had disturbed it. But the 
words he had uttered ; these sent the blood trembling 
through my heart and dashing through my veins and 
arteries, till the ends of my fingers tingled ! Elsie had 
not forgotten me! That was certain. A much duller 
youth would have gathered that from the hearty words 
of the visitor. And I felt very much as if I could 
embrace him, then and there. 

Looking about the office, he cried : 

“ Where’s your hat? Get your hat and come with 
me ! Elsie dicl not tell me to fetch you, but that’s what 
she meant, and what she’d like !” 

I began to make excuses. I urged that I was not 
in proper plight for a visit to the ladies of his house- 
hold. And while 1 averred that Elsie was not half so 


4 6 


BROKEN LIVES. 


anxious to see her old playfellow as I was to see mine, 
still 1 begged to postpone the visit until evening, as a 
fitter time. 

“ That’s no doubt right,” he broke in. “ That’s what 
Elsie said. She said, ‘ Bid him to tea, uncle ! Bid him 
to tea, this very evening.’ ” 

And now, I wished I had made no excuse, but had 
gone at once, so put out was I at the bare idea of join- 
ing the family at tea. But seeing no polite way out, 
I accepted the invitation, and the good man took his 
leave. 

It would be vain to attempt to describe my emo- 
tions during the next few hours. For the first time in 
my life I was discontented with my apparel^ in which, 
I suppose, I displayed a common weakness. 

As the evening drew on, I repaired to my lodgings 
and arrayed mysell with care, in my brown tweed. I 
am sure the illustrious Mr. Titmouse could scarcely 
have been more painstaking than I was on this oc- 
casion. And the large mirror in the parlor of the board- 
ing house, at which I glanced, reflected an image that 
even in my anxious state, was not entirely unpleasing. 
I had inferred from a remark of my preceptor, after the 
departure of Mr. Downs that that gentleman’s wife, 
whom he had married in the South, was a devotee to 
fashion and society. As the old-time friend of Elsie, I 
was anxious to give her no cause of mortification, and 
this intelligence added not a little to my trepidation. 
But at the time appointed, and I was to come early, I 
started. As 1 neared the place, I saw coming up the 
street, meeting me, an open barouche, with a coachman 
on the box, and two ladies within. Now I should at that 
period, have been quite unable to describe the magnifi- 
cent costumes of these latter, and in essaying it, I draw 
upon the wisdom of later years and so shall no doubt 
omit some of the finer and less palpable points. The 
youngest of the two, was petite , almost child-like in fig- 
ure, and wore a gleaming yellow satin dress, trimmed 
with black thread lace, open at the throat, and elbow 
sleeves. The neck was encircled by a gold chain, to 
which hanging pendant, were numerous opals of goodly 


BROKEN LIVES. 


4 7 


size. She wore a corsage bouquet of roses ; on her 
arms were bracelets and bangles, and, as I discovered 
later, her fingers were encircled with several rings, set 
with rare gems. She wore a black lace bonnet and 
carried a parasol of like material, lined with crimson. 
Her face bore evidences of unusual refinement and, 
shone upon by the reflected crimson light, was singu- 
larly beautiful. 1 saw, as they drew nearer, for my at- 
tention was riveted to the verge of rudeness, two eyes, 
dark, large and luminous, in which there was a dreamy 
look of perfect content. Her complexion was olive and 
colorless, save the lips, which wore the crimson of 
perfect youthful health. 

Of the elder, nothing need be said, except that if a 
score of years had been lifted from her face and form, 
and her costume had been the same as that described, 
she would have been the perfect image of the younger. 

Just as I had reached the hither edge of the grounds 
in the midst of which stood the palatial dwelling of 
Elsie’s uncle, and was, as I supposed, about to meet 
and be passed by the carriage, it turned and drove up 
the avenue, toward the house ; for the ladies were none 
other than Elsie’s aunt and foster cousin, Miss Hortense 
Parte. I instinctively realized this, and it well nigh 
paralyzed me. 

I was about to turn back, when I beheld another 
form which had the effect to instantly change my incli- 
nation ; the form of another young lady, much taller 
than the inmate of the carriage. She was playing with 
a beautiful St. Bernard dog of great size. The apparel 
of this girl was as simple and plain as that of the other 
was elaborate and gorgeous. She wore a dress of pure 
white, and about her waist a sash of broad blue ribbon. 
Her luxuriant golden-brown hair fell freely about her 
graceful shoulders and down to the ribbon of blue that 
encircled her waist. In her hand she held a riding 
whip, by the simple motions of which she directed the 
movements of the great beast, that seemed to under- 
stand the slightest gesture of his mistress. 

I have reached the walk leading up to the house, and 
must turn in or pass on, and at the moment I am seized 


48 


BROKEN LIVES. 


with such a sense of embarrassment as nearly drives 
me on — and away. But I master it, and with almost 
trembling steps, turn toward the house. The girl and 
her playfellow are well up the walk, neither having as 
yet observed my presence. I think that at that moment 
it would have been a relief if the dog had attacked me. 
But I was within less than twenty feet of the two, be- 
fore he saw me. He stopped playing, moved toward 
me, uttering a deep, angry growl, just as his mistress, 
looking up, discovered my approach. 

“ Down, Bruin, down!” she cried, springing between 
the dog and myself, and evincing alarm. The animal 
obeyed reluctantly, and the girl turned toward me. 

“ Is this the residence of Mr. Downs ?” I asked, halt- 
ingly, not knowing what else to say. 

“ Yes, sir,” in clear and simple accents, she answered ; 
and then there arose in her face a look of questioning 
uncertainty. 

“ Have I the honor to address Miss Cradock ?” I 
questioned, lifting my hat. For a brief moment she 
stood with the questioning expression in her eyes, then 
bounding forward with an air as confident as if we had 
parted but yesterday, cried : 

“ O, Felix, and is it indeed you ?” And this excla- 
mation was so hearty and soulful, and there was such a 
look of honest gladness in her upturned face that in a 
moment I had forgotten that there was anvbody but 
just our two happy selves, in all the bright world. 

With both her own she seized my extended hand 
and so looked up into my face, that without stopping 
to weigh nice questions of propriety — nor did I for the 
matter of that know how to weigh them — I bent for- 
ward and imprinted upon her lips, a kiss as honest and 
true as ever saluted the lips of maiden ; and to this the 
sweet girl returned a like salutation. And then she led 
me up the broad walk and into the house, while all the 
time she was plying me with a hundred questions, 
scarcely taking time to answer the few which by some 
dexterity I was able to interpose. We were alone in 
the great drawing room for many minutes. And now, 
I could sit and gaze at her with none but herseli to wit- 


BROKEN LIVES. 


49 


ness the aspect of my countenance ; while I did so with 
my heart so full of happiness, that I was sure I should 
never desire other employment. 

And when I came to look at her, how like and yet 
how unlike the Elsie of other days. The same glorious 
hair, only more luxuriant, and a mere suspicion of 
waves that I did not remember. The same brow, 
neither lofty nor low, and of peerless purity ; only now 
it bore signs of much added culture. The same great, 
dark-blue eyes, only these shone with an added depth 
and luster, of incomparable serenity. The straight 
nose, the nostrils whereof dilated and fell responsive to 
the slightest emotion of her heart. The arched brows, 
as perfect in outline as if formed by an artist’s pencil. 
The pure sweet mouth, and chin of such graceful con- 
tour, that mouth and chin had attracted attention and 
admiration when she was a little girl. And now I sat 
gazing at them, feeling amazed that what was always so 
perfect could have grown so much more beautiful. 
Unlike that of her foster cousin, her face was fair, and 
tinged with the hue of perfect health. Her throat had 
the seeming of pure, white velvet. 

And as I looked on all this perfection, I said in my 
heart, “ And this is she, whom my mother called my 
Elsie, and of whose family she has said: ‘The Cradocks 
are a steadfast people.’ ” 

But now we hear approaching along the corridor, 
quick but heavy steps, and in a moment more Elsie’s 
uncle walks in. 

“ Ah, Felix — for I must call you so — I can’t ‘ Mister ’ 
you, I am glad to have you in my house !’’ he cried. “ I 
was in the library,” he continued, “and saw you arrive. 
It’s a great pleasure to see friends meet after years of 
separation.” 

Elsie and I exchanged quick glances, she laughing 
softly, but evincing little confusion, while I was con- 
scious that my face was scarlet, of which the generous 
uncle appeared to take no notice, but went on to say : 

“ By the way, your old friend Conrad,” for such 
was Cooney’s real name, “ whom you served so good a 
turn the other evening, is crazy to see you. He con- 
5 


50 


BROKEN LIVES. 


stantly blames himself for not recognizing you. But he 
makes excuses that he was so put out by the ruffians, 
that he would not have known Elsie. He was saying 
this morning that he might have known that there was 
no other young gentleman in the world that would ‘a 
fit that ’er way fur pore Cooney.’ ” 

And as the good man went on, he continued to walk 
back and forth, rubbing his hands and looking from one 
to the other with a pleased expression of countenance. 

Elsie had left the room and returned, bringing the 
ungainly but smartly dressed Cooney. He broke out, 
blubbering and laughing at once. His speech was so 
imperfect, that, used as I had been to it in my child- 
hood, I could scarcely understand a word he said. He 
was sure that I must be offended that he had not recog- 
nized me. I reassured him, in doing which, I called 
him “ Conrad.” He broke in, more vehemently than 
ever : 

‘‘Doan, Muster Felix; doan call ’e ’at; call ’e jest 
Cooney, please ; to’ther sounds so distant like, and ’en 
’es nobody but jest pore Cooney, no ’ow, ’cept Muster 
Downzez’s ’orsteler an’ heps Muss Elsie mount ’er ’orss 
w’en se rides a ’orseback.” 

I consoled him, calling him “ Cooney,” and he 
ambled out, crying and laughing by turns. 

In another moment Mrs. Downs and her niece enter, 
the aunt leading the way. The sensation produced by 
her appearance was one of amazement, that so diminu- 
tive a person could be so stately. She bore herself as 
a “ princess of the blood ” might. It was, 1 thought, the 
poise of her very pretty and shapely head, that wrought 
this effect. While perfectly polite toward me, her 
speech being in most cordial phrase, there was in it all, 
such a reserve as seemed to say : “ From this elevation 
I condescend to salute and welcome the friend of my 
husband’s niece.” She was still a beautiful woman, 
younger by many years than her husband, who was a 
bachelor of forty and had achieved a fortune as a trader 
to the South country, when he married this pretty 
Creole-French girl. 

The niece, Hortense, was much more cordial, 


BROKEN LIVES. 


51 


though I fancied that there was an air of conscious su- 
periority, as if she were patronizing me. While in the 
presence of Elsie and her uncle, only, I had felt that 
restraint which, oddly enough, such circumstances and 
state of the affections beget. But now, the patronizing 
airs of the other ladies had the effect to put me on my 
mettle, and presently my tongue was loosed and 
equipped with ready and apt speech ; and I had the 
satisfaction of seeing a look of triumph in Elsie’s eyes, 
and I was sure that the face of my generous host wore 
a gratified smile. 

When we had reached the spacious dining room, 
Mr. Downs, standing at the head of the table, pointed 
to the place on his right: “Sit here, Mr. Munro,” he 
said, “ Sit here on my right ; and you here on my left, 
Elsie, that you may look into each other’s faces, for, 
from the way Felix looks at you, child, 1 don’t think 
he’s quite sure that he has found the right girl — eh, 
Felix?’’ And away my blood rushed into my face, 
again. 

“ Don’t be embarrassed at what uncle says ; he for- 
gets that he was ever young and diffident himself ; if, 
indeed, he ever was the latter,” suggested Hortense, 
good naturedly, but rather enjoying, I thought, my 
confusion. 

“ You are very considerate, Miss Parte,” I answered, 
“ but 1 know that this arrangement, so agreeable, to me 
at least, is but another proof of his kindness and good 
will.” 

“ Good will !” cried my host. “ Good will ! Why, 
boy, you will never know, 1 hope, how a childless old 
man yearns to take to his heart every boy and girl, with 
clean and intelligent faces, he sees !” and his eyes filled 
with tears. “ Besides,” he went on presently, “ you are 
something better than a mere stranger. Why, for these 
six or seven years, I have heard you spoken of almost 
every week by Elsie here, and by her mother, too, 
when she was with us ; and always as Elsie’s friend and 
playmate, and on more than one occasion her fellow- 
adventurer ; and what’s better still, always as a good 
boy, Felix, a good and generous boy !” 


52 


BROKEN LIVES. 


There was an almost solemn quiet during the rest 
oi the repast. The occasion had stirred in the heart of 
the uncle, memories of his own children, whose un- 
timely deaths he never ceased to mourn. 

Supper over, my host and myself, at his suggestion, 
repaired to the library, that he might indulge in a cigar. 
I knew not if this had other design. But certain it is, 
that we were soon followed by Elsie. Nor did we quit 
the comfortable apartment until I took my leave two 
hours later. 

“ Come here as freely as you would to the house of 
your nearest kinsman,” were the words of my host, as 
he held my hand at parting. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

UNDER THE ROBIN’S TREE. “O, FELIX, HOW CAN YOU 
ASK, AFTER ALL THESE YEARS?” 

It was early November, when Elsie and I had already 
fallen into the habit of taking as often as each alternate 
evening, a stroll along the beautiful street on which she 
lived and which ended at a woodland. This field of 
forest had from an early day been the property of her 
uncle, who had religiously left untouched, its great, 
primitive trees. He had not, as yet, formally dedicated 
it to the city’s uses, but the public had access to and 
the unhindered use of it, except that no firearms were 
allowed within its inclosure. In consequence of this 
restriction, squirrels, rabbits, and birds of every song 
and plumage found in a land where winter holds sway 
four months of the year, abounded ; and were tame and 
fearless. Elsie was sure that the same family of robins 
had builded their nest in the one angle of the limbs of 
the same tree, each year of her sojourn in Terra Alta. 
And sure, too, she was, that she knew the “ old folks ” 
of this family. These she had named in honor of two 
friends of her childhood, “ Moses ” and “ Annie.” On 


BROKEN LIVES. 


53 


our first visit thither, a month ago, she had said, as the 
birds flitted about their home-tree near us : “ Mr. 
Moses, Mrs. Annie, this is my old friend, Felix Munro. 
Don’t be afraid ; he, too, loves robins.” And so I did. 

The innocent pair hopped about, looking so wise 
and understanding that 1 wondered in fancy if, indeed, 
they might have gotten some notion of the meaning of 
Elsie’s words. 

In these last days there had been something in Elsie’s 
air and manner I could not understand, but which none 
the less disturbed me. I had noted that her embarrass- 
ment, if indeed, it was that, was greater when she was in 
the presence of her aunt and Hortense. Already morbid 
from too close application to my studies and to the 
work which my preceptor had generously furnished 
me to do, this behavior of Elsie threw me into a sort of 
spasm of desperation. I determined to speak of the 
matter now, this very day. 

“ Elsie,” I began, and my voice was so low and earn- 
est that the girl looked quickly up at me, while her face 
was overspread with an expression of embarrassment, 
and she clasped her hands in startled expectancy. 
“ Elsie, pray, what is it that annoys you so?” 

After some hesitation, during which the whole 
aspect of her face changed, she answered : 

“ Why, Felix, why do you ask? What have I done? 
Tell me, please.” 

“Why, Elsie,” I cried, “you have done nothing 
to make you look like that. I only meant that you 
should understand that I know something, somebody — 
what shall I say?” And I found myself floundering 
wofully. And then in sheer desperation : “ I know ! 

I know what it means : you have been persecuted, be- 
cause of your— friendship lor me. They make sport of 
me, and plague }^ou on my account! I know !” 1 said, 
falling into the homely phrase 1 had been used to. She 
started slightly, and eagerly asked : 

“Why, Felix, how did you know?” 

I was filled with indignation. 

“ It is brutal !” I cried. “ I am poor, true ; rustic, too, 
no doubt, in the eyes of these fine ladies. But it is con- 


54 BROKEN LIVES. 

temptible in them to persecute you — confound them !” 

‘‘Please don’t, Felix!” she said. And then after a 
moment she went on in a tone of rebuke, the color 
mounting to her face : “Don’t look that way. Why, 
if you only had the firebrand you would look as wicked 
as you did that night when you pursued the catamounts 
into the thickets. Come, sit down. Please do not be 
angry. That distresses me most of all.” 

I was ashamed now, and obeyed so far as to sit 
down. 

“ Catamounts ! Catamounts !” I cried ; “ only I 
may not fight them as I did those in the forest. It 
is brutal in them !” I repeated ; for I was wounded in 
my very heart at the thought that Elsie had been, as I 
supposed, subjected to ridicule, on my account. 

“ No, no, Felix,” Elsie presently answered. “You 
do not understand. It is not at all as you imagine. 
They do not behave as the people we knew, would. O, 
if it were brutal, as you have said, it would be less an- 
noying. One can defy brutality, or even rudeness. If 
they spoke of you broadly, or treated you rudely, or 
put you in open question in any way, as impolite people 
do, I should appeal to my uncle. But no, they call you 
Mr. Munro ; they speak of your comeliness ; marvel at 
the progress you have made, in your circumstances, 
but — I know not how to make you understand.” 

“O, I’m not so stupid !” I cried, a little nettled; at 
which Elsie was hurt, seeing which I was ashamed of 
myself, and went on more gently : “ O yes, I do under- 
stand, Elsie. I am too rustic, too plain, too poor. My 
visits to your uncle’s house shame these fine, but silly 
ladies. If I wore fine apparel, possessed wealth, or 
perchance belonged to one of the everlasting ‘ old fam- 
ilies’ we hear so much about, that ‘ saw the Indians and 
wintered in the fort,’ then if I should get drunk once a 
week as some of these do, your stately little aunt would 
approve me as I have seen her approve such with smiles 
and welcomes, and with the highest seat in her syna- 
gogue. O yes, I understand !” 

“ Yes, you appear to understand,” Elsie answered, 
simply, but in a moment added, “ Only, pray do not 


BROKEN LIVES. 


55 


think my aunt and her niece silly. I assure you they 
are not that.” 

A little on the reader will see now two foousn cnil- 
dren, the one a spirited but totally inexperienced boy, 
the other a proud and sensitive girl, managed to mag- 
nify a molehill, until in their eyes, it had all the seem- 
ing of a mountain. But the trouble, for the moment, 
was real and serious. So when we arose to go, Elsie 
was silent and thoughtful, while my mind and heart 
were in a tumult of contending thoughts and emotions. 

Very slowly we walked under the low, spreading 
branches of the maples, and as sometimes I had done 
in our childhood, I had stolen her hand and held it, 
clasped in mine, and somehow the tumult in my mind 
and heart had subsided, to be succeeded by another, 
quite different ; and I fell to talking in a voice so unlike 
that of just now, that Elsie looked into my face with an 
expression of glad surprise. 

We had stopped and I now held both her hands and 
was saying: “O Elsie, darling, I am always blunder- 
ing. Here, I have been giving you more pain than 
they possibly could. What need we care for what they 
may say or do, if — O, Elsie, mine, if you will love me 
just a little bit ! I do not ask you to love me as I love 
you, but if you will love me just a little, what need we 
care for what these vain women — for what the whole 
world may say or do? Do you care for me? Do 
you love me just a little? ’ 

In a voice tremulous with emotion, she answered 
softly : “ O Felix, how can you ask, after all these 
years?” 

“ O, you will be my sweetheart, then, forever and 
ever,” I cried, as I held her in my bosom. 

“ Forever and forever /” she whispered, turning her 
sweet face toward mine. 

Slowly we walked on, and we were very, very happy 
on that November evening in the long ago. 

As we neared the great mansion i hat stood outlined 
against the yellow sky, so that with its many angles and 
gables, I fancied it" looked like a feudal castle, we 
saw the family carriage turn into the grounds, and 


56 


BROKEN LIVES. 


within, the stately little aunt and her niece on one seat, 
while on the other, talking and gesticulating, sat the 
uncle. 

Ah, little did they dream of the great sea of happi- 
ness within the heart beneath the brown jacket of the 
approaching rustic, or of the gentler but more precious 
love, filling the bosom of the rustic’s companion. 

We were silent. (Need I to have said this?) 

There are times when speech is mockery, and falls 
on the ear 

“Like sweet bells jangled out of tune, and harsh.” 

But now the uncle sees us ; the aunt and Hortense, 
had as we knew, observed us some time ago. He calls 
to the coachman : “Hold, Jonas! Drive up thefront way 
and let the ladies out there. Here, Elsie, Felix ; come 
up to the end of the drive and wait a moment.” The 
ladies alighted, and in a moment more the carriage was 
flying toward us. 

“ Here Elsie, you and Felix get in,” cried the uncle 
as he reached us. As w^e obeyed, he went on : “You 
will let an old man bear you company. You see your 
aunt just now picked me up on my way home, so I’ve 
had no ride to speak of. And here’s Felix — it’s pre- 
cious little riding he indulges, with his studies and his 
copying.” And the venerable man looked at me so 
compassionately, that Elsie’s face was all aglow with 
happy sympathy, and I thought there were tears in her 
glorious eyes, as I thanked him with faltering voice, for 
his generous words had touched me keenly. But he 
did not let us dwell on these. 

“ I heard something very pleasing, to-day,” he went 
on. “ Col. Townshend says that already Felix is of more 
account to him in causes, than half of his paid asso- 
ciates. What do you think of that, niece, mine? And 
he says, (and here the good man slapped his knee vio- 
lently) ‘ that he is going to bring him to the bar right 
awmy.’ You know the Colonel is a Virginian, and he 
uses the old phrases, which sound large enough in his 
mouth. I assure you.” 

“ Why, uncle Hugh, Felix is not twenty-one yet,” 


BROKEN LIVES. 


5 7 


suggested Elsie, blushing. “ How can Col. Townshend 
bring him to the bar, as he calls it ? You must be of 
age, mustn’t you, Felix?” 

“ O,” 1 cried, blushing too, I think, “ Colonel Town- 
shend is not in earnest. He simply wished to say some- 
thing kindly. He is the most generous man in the 
world, excepting your uncle.” 

“ Ah, Felix, ’ answered the uncle, solemnly, “you 
shame an old man. I have not been generous according 
to my ability. I have not served my generation half as 
I ought.” And after this there was silence for a space. 
As for Elsie and myself, we were sitting side by side, 
and that was enough. But I saw at length that our 
companion, while not appearing to, was eyeing us, 
from time to time, closely. After awhile he said, in a 
tone of subdued tenderness: “1 am glad to see you 
looking so happy, my dears.” Elsie blushed again. 
As for myself, 1 have always had an infirmity for blush- 
ing. It was for many years a source of daily annoy- 
ance. Try as I might, I could not overcome it; so, at 
length I gave up the struggle, concluding that so long 
as I had any red blood I must be content to have my 
face flame up, on every slight occasion. Not that I 
was annoyed now, for inexperienced as I was, I felt 
sure that it was proper enough to blush at this speech. 
I managed to say that I would be ungrateful indeed, 
if I were not happy in such company and encouraged 
by such kindly words. 

“ Well, as to the company, yes,” he answered drily. 

When, on reaching the avenue leading up to the 
house, 1 left the carriage, Mr. Downs said, “ Remem- 
ber, boy, you could not be more welcome at the house 
f ur mother, than at this. Corneas often as you 



The next morning my preceptor informed me, speak- 
ing of it as if it had happened an hundred times before, 
that it had been arranged that I should appear with 
him in the defence of a young man who had slain the 
betrayer of his sister. 1 should not have been quite so 
badly put out at the intelligence that I was myself to 
be instead, put on trial for murder. 


58 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“Why, Col. Townshend,” I stammered, “why — 
really — I cannot think of doing so preposterous a thing. 
I shall become the laughing stock of the court, bar and 
people, if I appear in such a cause ! Surely you can- 
not be serious.” 

“Remember, you are to appear with me, as my junior. 
Who knows you are not of age? Whose business but 
the court’s, is it? And he is willing to waive it. O 
yes, you’ll appear. The client is to be brought here 
directly, for consultation. You will have three weeks 
for preparation. I shall expect you to make the first 
argument.” 

I saw that he was in earnest. I must peremptorily 
decline, and so, as I feared, offend him, or do as he sug- 
gested. I thought of Elsie ; I thought of my poverty 
and obscurity. It really seemed impossible to worst 
matters ; so, said I, “ I shall do the best I can, if you 
command it. I cannot disobey your wishes after all 
you have done for me.” 

“ Very well ; I command it,” was the answer. 

With every detail of the case I familiarized myself. 
The client — “ our client,” Colonel Townshend was care- 
ful to call him — had shot down in the street the destroyer 
of his sister. No youth in the city had a fairer name. 
He was poor, while the slain man was the son of “ an 
old and wealthy family ;” and though the accused had 
many friends, the family of the deceased had more, and 
the prosecution was to be conducted by two of the 
ablest criminal lawyers in the State — men whose names 
are yet familiar in the annals of the commonwealth. 

So wrought upon was I by my labors and at the 
bare contemplation of appearing in so great a cause, 
that it was well for me that no more than three weeks 
were to elapse before the trial. Day after day I laid 
before my senior the result of my researches and re- 
flections, and night after night went over it again in my 
dreams. And then I would arise to address the jury, 
and it would seem that my heart would stop and I would 
be unable to utter a word. And in chagrin and humil- 
iation I would awake, bathed in perspiration, and my 
brain on fire. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


59 


At length I grew morbid. I began to contemplate 
the event as involving my inevitable discomfiture. 
Again I begged my preceptor not to bring me forward, 
and believe, though later he denied it, that he would 
have yielded, having grown distrustful, but for the cir- 
cumstance that it had been published that I was to ap- 
pear, and the Colonel had so praised to bar and bench 
my preparation — my brief — that he was compelled to 
admit if he were inclined to do so, he could not excuse 
me now. This increased my trepidation, and filled me 
with yet more gloomy apprehensions. 

It was but three days till that fixed for the trial, 
when I bent my steps toward the home of Elsie, whom 
I had not visited for more than a week. I was told at 
the door that she was in the library, whither I hastened 
unannounced, hoping thus to avoid contact with the 
other ladies of the household. Elsie was reading aloud 
to her uncle, a duty she often performed at evening. 

I was far down the great room before my presence 
was discovered. The expression that arose in Elsie’s 
face amazed me. She faltered out, “ O Felix, you are 
ill ! I was sure of it ! I told uncle yesterday that you 
were surely ill. Why, you look ready to fall!” I 
affected a boisterous laugh; but it did not deceive her. 
Indeed, she looked more than ever alarmed. 

“ Indeed, indeed, I am not ill,” I said, going up to 
her and taking her hand in mine. Still she shook her 
head doubtingly, as we sat down side by side. Mean- 
time, the uncle having put his spectacles on, drew near 
looking inquiringly into my face. 

“Ah, Colonel Townshend told me you were work- 
ing too diligently in that case, and that you had grown 
a little nervous, was what the good man said. 

“ Is it that? Oh, Felix, is it that which makes you 
look so ?” Elsie questioned, anxiously. I was obliged 
to admit the truth, when she went on : “ I have been 

so anxious that I have scarcely slept ; and the trial is to 
come on Monday ?” And presently, after looking into 
my face with an expression of yearning tenderness, and 
taking my hand in both her own she said, in accents 
which I sometimes fancy I can still recall: “Why, 


6o 


BROKEN LIVES. 


Felix, you look as if you were going to a trial for your 
own life, rather than to plead for the life of another. 
This must be dreadful business. Why, it will wear 
your life out of you in a year, at this rate.” 

“ O, I shall soon grow accustomed to it,” I answered, 
lightly. “ I am foolishly nervous. It is all wrong any 
way. I ought never to have yielded to Colonel Town- 
shend’s wish. I am too young and not sufficiently 
equipped for such a performance.” And then, I added 
in tones so low that Elsie alone heard : “ But having 

consented to do so, it is indeed, little less than a trial 
for my life. O, Elsie, darling, if 1 fail, I can never look 
you in the face again ! Not so much because of failure, 
but rather that I was foolish enough to essay such a 
task at my age and with my inexperience, and so run 
the risk of humiliating you and your kind uncle, and of 
making myself ridiculous. But,” I added, aloud, “ I 
cannot draw back now.” 

“ No, no, you cannot, you must not. That I fear 
would be worse than failure.” Elsie said this while 
looking appealingly at her uncle, for whose opinions 
she had a reverence equal to her love for his person. 

“No, Mr. Munro must go forward,” he responded. 
And I did not like his “Mistering” me. I fancied that 
he was displeased, and now I came to think of it, I 
could but wonder that I had ever consented to take 
such a step without his advice. “ O, if I do fail!” I 
cried in my heart. For the case was attracting wide 
attention ; not only in the city, but in all the country 
about, and a knowledge of my failure would be wide- 
spread. 

I mustered courage at length to say : “ Mr. Downs, 

I should have advised with you, but the matter was 
sprung so suddenly, and Colonel Townshend was so 
urgent, that really, I had no time for reflection.” 

He seemed to apprehend what was in my mind and 
hastened to answer : “ Don’t think of that for a mo- 

ment, child. It would not have made the slightest 
difference. I should have told you to follow the advice 
of your preceptor. You have done right. Colonel 
Townshend is not likely to have made any mistake. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


6 1 


He is more than ever confident that you will acquit 
yourself handsomely. He is a little anxious about your 
nervousness, but says the friction of the trial will have 
worn that off before you ‘ come to the jury ’ — as he 
expresses it. But,” the good man added presently, 
“ if you will allow me to advise you now, I have a sug- 
gestion.” 

“ O, sir,’’ I cried, eagerly, “ pray what is it ? What 
would you have me do?” 

“ Not a very easy thing in your frame of mind, I 
imagine,” he answered. “ I would have you dismiss 
all thought of this case for the next two days. Come 
to us to-morrow ; Elsie and I are alone, her aunt and 
Hortense are away for a week. We will dine together, 
and if the weather is like this, we will drive to the 
country.” 

My heart gave a great bound at the words, “ Elsie 
and I are alone.” All at once the aspect of things 
changed. The prospect of two days with Elsie was 
enough to cure a much worse case of “blues” than 
had ever afflicted me, with my buoyant spirits; though 
I had from childhood been subject to the disorder. 
Nor was Elsie indifferent. Her eyes shone with a light 
that transfigured her sweet face, which had before worn 
a look of anxiety. I laughed an honest laugh now. 
“ O,” I exclaimed with warmth, “if all physicians pre- 
scribed such medicines, what a pleasure to be sick!’’ 
And the uncle was scarcely less delighted. 

When I took my leave of Elsie at the door, and 
heard the sweet accents of her voice, in the words : 
“ Good-night ; God bless you, darling,’’ the earth and 
the skies and all things animate and inanimate had put 
on their beautiful garments, and I had really forgotten 
my poor client and his cause. 


62 


BROKEN LIVES. 


BOOK II. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE TRIAL. FELIX AS AN ADVOCATE. 

The day had come. The court room was crowded 
with lawyers, witnesses and curious spectators. The 
venerable parents ot the slain man, with their solemn 
faces, sat with the prosecution. The defendant, with 
serious aspect, was seated by the side of his champion, 
Colonel Townshend, and by him sat the ruined sister, 
with a face of great beauty, but sadder than tnat of the 
Magdalene, while on her knee she held a babe, which 
all said was the image of the slain despoiler. Behind 
this group, in easy communication with my senior, I 
was, as far as I could, hiding from the gaze of the 
multitude, who looked as multitudes do, ever at the 
accused. Doubtless it was thus curiously they gazed 
at the Prince of Peace, while He was scourged, and 
crowned of thorns. 

Of all the waiting throng, I am sure I was the most 
nervously anxious. I envied the coolness of the pris- 
oner, even. I think, at that moment, I would gladly 
have accepted the most obscure and painful career, and 
entered myself apprentice to it, to escape this now im- 
minent ordeal. 1 tried to recall my mother’s admoni- 
tion, “ Remember your father’s integrity and courage, 
my son,” but my heart would sink within me. I endeav- 
ored to call up the image of Elsie, hoping for inspira- 
tion thence, but still my nerves quivered and my pulses 
throbbed, and my face burned, while my hands were as 
cold as the hands of the dead. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


63 


“ This was egotism,” you say, “ supreme self-con- 
sciousness.” I saw once a bullock drawn by the horns 
to the post of death, and in the agony of his apprehen- 
sion all his flesh quivered. He was an egotist, no more 
nor less than I at that moment. 

Now the panel file slowly into the box and a mist 
passes before my eyes, and they seemed “ men as trees 
walking.” I gasped for breath. I could endure the 
agony no longer. I arose and left the court room. I 
walked rapidly down to the river and stooping, bathed 
my face and throbbing temples. 

“ This is awful!” I cried. “My preceptor had bet- 
ter have killed me outright. What shall l do ? If I 
fly, I am undone ; if I remain, I shall inevitably fail, and 
so render myself ridiculous.” 

“ Remember your father’s integrity and courage, 
my son,” again my mother said — her voice as distinct 
as on that day, when she said it across the little gate, 
as I turned to leave her. Instantly a feeling of calm- 
ness began to steal over my senses. “ Is this reaction?” 
I queried. “Shall I fall into a stupor?” I began to 
feel an indifference, like one who, having taken a nar- 
cotic potion, hears the fire bells, but turns over and 
sleeps on. 

In this state, I walked calmly back and into the 
court room. My senior looked at me keenly ; at first 
with an expression of anxiety, but on seeing my changed 
aspect, a pleased smile took the place of the anxious 
look, as he said, “ I wish your opinion of the jury.” I 
looked at the “twelve” with the air of a veteran. They 
were unknown to me ; but I saw a face I did not like. 
I said so. “ Capital !” whispered my senior. “ I had 
already determined to challenge him ; he will not do.” 
And turning about, he excused the juror. Another 
took his place ; both sides were content, and the panel 
was sworn. 

The first witness takes the stand. His evidence is 
brief and unimportant; the cross examination but a 
single question. The second and third are like the first. 

But now the name of one is called, known to be hos- 
tile. He was in company with the deceased at the time of 


6 4 


BROKEN LIVES. 


the nomicide, and had sworn fiercely against the pris- 
oner at the inquest. Having actively espoused the 
cause of the prosecution, he had talked much upon the 
streets and had, as I had found, made many contradic- 
tory statements. Questions involving these, a score or 
more, I had prepared with care. His evidence in chief 
ran smoothly and strongly against the prisoner. He 
was a full hour in delivering it, and at the end was tri- 
umphantly turned over for cross examination. Under 
the adroit questioning of Colonel Townshend, the fel- 
low was driven to modify and weaken point after point 
of his evidence in chief. And now the cross-examiner 
has reached the point where the impeaching questions 
must be propounded. I had them in orderly array, 
ready to pass to my associate, as needed, when he turned 
to me saying: “Mr. Munro, you have this matter at 
your fingers’ ends ; will you conduct the further exam- 
ination of this witness ?” This morning the suggestion 
would have filled me with dismay. It startled me now, 
but I saw in the face of my senior a look of undoubting 
confidence; I took no time to reflect. 

“ As you please, Colonel,” I said. He turned about 
and explained to the court. The other side made no 
objection. Indeed, they were glad enough to have me do 
it, rather than my experienced senior, who had already 
shaken the witness. I proceeded with question after 
question. Such interrogatories must disclose the per- 
sons to whom the contradictory statements have been 
made. Among these were some of the best men in the 
city. The false statements related to the conduct and 
declarations of the prisoner. As the questions disclosed 
that he had been caught in his crime, the witness be- 
came panic-stricken. At first he evaded and equivo- 
cated, but I continued to push him. Then he grew im- 
pertinent. I bore this good-naturedly. At length he 
evinced a disposition to argue each question instead of 
answering it, and ended in quarreling with the judge 
and getting fined for contempt. 

As the witness left the stand, I chanced to look past 
the bench, at a row of seats elevated above the rest, 
and set apart for elderly men and persons of distinction, 


BROKEN LIVES. 


65 


when I discovered the benignant face of Elsie’s uncle, 
all aglow with admiration and pleasure, as it might have 
been at the triumph of his own son. 

As I walked toward my lodgings this evening, I felt 
amazed at the revolution the day’s work had wrought 
in my courage and self-confidence. I understood now 
what my preceptor had meant by the “ friction of the 
trial.” He was right. At this rate I should be quite 
at home before reaching the jury. 

It is the fourth day of the trial. The prosecuting 
attorney has concluded the opening argument for the 
State. He has made a savage, almost brutal speech, 
demanding the life of the prisoner, who, much worn, 
sat with white face, his great, brown liquid eyes wear- 
ing that expression seen in the eyes of a hunted animal. 
His aspect was most piteous as he sat meek and patient, 
while malediction and denunciation poured from the 
glib and reckless tongue of the prosecutor. 

“ He that sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his 
blood be shed,” concluded the State’s attorney, with 
great vehemence. 

If I had thought of myself and of what I was about 
to essay and hazard, at this moment, I should have sunk 
under the weight of it all. If I had paused to look at 
the curious and expectant crowd of spectators now 
watching me, my courage would inevitably have failed. 
But none of these things disturbed me. I was thinking 
only of the cruel and wicked perversion of the evi- 
dence by the prosecutor ; and of the ruined sister and 
the brother, who had so terribly, but righteously 
avenged that ruin. 

In such frame, I arose and stepped quickly toward 
the desk in front of the jury. My senior came toward 
me, with a look of mingled pride and misgiving. For 
the briefest space this reminded me of myself, but at the 
same moment I saw the eyes of my client lifted toward 
my face, with such look of entreaty as turned my mind 
and heart to him and his cause. 

Colonel Townshend whispered: “It is but a half 
hour till the noon recess. The court will rise now if 
5 


BROKEN LIVES. 


66 

you wish ; would you rather he should, or will you go 
on now ?” 

“ Now, now, now !” I cried ; and pushing almost 
rudely past him, I began my address. 

I really remember little more. It was 2 o’clock 
when I ended, a fact entirely incredible to me, so in- 
sensible had I been to the flight of time. The indulgent 
old judge had allowed me to go on, without interrup- 
tion for recess. I was equally insensible to the effect 
my advocacy had produced upon the audience, except 
the jury ; and I cared little for the rest. But when I 
had sat down and looked about, I discovered that every 
face I saw bore signs of emotion. The tears were still 
on the cheeks of many, and it appeared that everybody 
had had recent need of his handkerchief. And I could 
see in the thousand eyes bent upon me such looks as 
were well calculated to gladden my heart, now that I 
thought of myself — of Elsie — of mother. And just then 
a hand was passed over my shoulder, from behind, and 
began patting and caressing me. And on looking up, 
I saw the face of my generous senior, bending over me, 
his eyes suffused with tears. I took the hand and 
pressed it gently, and he knew that I understood. 

At sight of this there was a slight rumbling, moved 
like a wave through the room. 

Mr. Downs had remained throughout the trial. It 
would have been difficult to say which was gladdest at 
my triumph, he or Colonel Townshend. The speech 
of “ the student” was the talk of the town. The news- 
papers took the matter in hand, and it really looked as 
if my fortune was made. 

Modesty would forbid my reproducing here any 
part of the argument made on behalf of my client, even if 
1 could recall it, which I cannot, to the extent of so much 
as a single sentence. But a reporter for the press did take 
down parts of it that were afterward published. And 
since there was occasion to make some observations on 
the subject of eyes, as indicative of character, and as 
that topic has been already introduced, and must be 
further dealt with in the course of these memoirs, it 
may not be amiss to set down here what I said on that 


BROKEN LIVES. 


67 

occasion, as containing what I’ve found to be the true 
philosophy in respect of the eye as an index of character. 

Following is what I said, together with the re- 
marks of the editor, introducing the matter : 

“ We reproduce, in addition to what we have heretofore published, some 
observations made by young Munro, in his arguments the other day on the 
subject of eyes. The prosecutor had charged that the prisoner had a mur- 
derous eye, and appealed to the jury to observe the defendant’s eyes. Now, 
it so happened that the eyes of the prisoner are remarkable in several par- 
ticulars, no one of which in the judgment of observers sustains the assertion 
of the prosecutor. When Mr. Munro, in the course of his argument, came 
to that part of the prosecutor’s speech, he said : 

“ ‘ The prosecutor has had the bad taste and worse judgment to make 
profert of my client’s eyes, and has appealed to you to find him guilty on 
the evidence of them. 

“ ‘ He has a murderous eye !” cries the prosecutor. 

“ ‘ I can easily imagine a case, in which, were I charged with the defence 
of a prisoner, such an appeal would fill me with alarm. For, gentlemen, 
you and I believe what the prosecutor only affects to believe, that the eyes 
are not only the windows of the soul, as the poet has said, but the unfailing 
index to the heart and mind, in short, to the character. For the quality of 
the eye, if in a healthy state, is fixed by the character of the intellect. The 
dome above is the source, whence eyes of beauty, of gentleness, of intelli- 
gence receive their life and nurture. If this dome is depressed, and mea- 
gerly supplied, the eye may glisten, but it can never sparkle ; it may glare, 
but it shines without beauty ; it may flash, but it never laughs or speaks. 
Ah, this superincumbent dome is the seat of universal beauty as of universal 
empire. All that distinguishes man from the beast mounts the throne, which 
God in the beginning set up here. Here abide forever, the kings and queens 
of the humanities. Benevolence, Love, Courage, Fortitude, Hope and Faith 
are of this royal family, empurpled and bearing scepters ; and speaking, all, 
through the eye. Depress — extinguish — this dome, and all eyes are but the 
eyes of serpents and beasts of prey. Thenceforth there will be dens, but no 
homes; reproduction, but no families ; huts, but no houses; dug-outs, but no 
ships shall plow the main again ; there will be robbery, but no commerce ; 
wars, but no parliaments. 

‘“Verily, our eyes do forever bear witness. Hoodwink your nearest 
friend and his unmarked face shall be strange to you; extinguish all the rest, 
and the eye and brow shall be unmistakable.’ 

“ The application of these suggestions to his client’s eyes is said to have 
been masterly.” 

On the day following the completion of the trial, 
Mr. Downs came bustling into the office, seized me by 
the hand and stood unable to speak a single word ; his 
ascent of the stairs, and his emotions having deprived 
him of the powers of speech. But he bore down upon 
me with his great, kindly eyes in a way that touched 
me, keenly. 


68 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“ I am obliged to you, Mr. Downs,” I said, “ for the 
interest you have taken in this matter, on my account. 
I shall never forget it, and hope to be able in some way, 
sometime, to repay it all.” 

“ Repay it !” he gasped. “ Repay me for the greatest 
happiness I have enjoyed in all my life. Oh, no, Felix; 
I am the debtor ! Why, I have been walking on the 
clouds, for three days !” 

And having regained, somewhat, his breath, he went 
on, less laboriously, still holding my hand and looking 
into my face, while tears suffused his eyes : 

“But if /have been walking on the clouds, I know 
somebody who has been surveying the stellar system. 
She has "been as far as Sirius, 1 am sure. My old ship 
carries too much ballast for such a voyage, or I should 
have gone along ; as it was, I got above the clouds, I 
assure you.’’ 

“ Please come down to earth again, Mr. Downs,” I 
said, “ I can’t get along without you and Elsie, and I 
have to confess that I do not feel very airy just now. 
I suppose I am foolish, ungrateful, and all that.” 

He stood looking at me in amazement; but seemed 
suddenly to understand. 

“Reaction!” he exclaimed. “Very natural; very 
natural ! Strange I did not think of that sooner.” And 
then uttering the single word “ Come,” he seized my 
hat and clapping it on my head, led me down to his 
carriage. He simply motioned me to get in. I obeyed, 
and he followed. 

“Drive home, Jonas!” he commanded, and in a few 
minutes we were at the mansion. Elsie met us in the 
corridor and was as speechless as her uncle had been. 
But I kissed and caressed her until she at length found 
her tongue. But not before she had cried a little; 
which I have always noted does not render a woman 
uncomely, if perfectly happy while about it; and Elsie 
was perfectly happy now, for she said so in such low, 
sweet accents — her face close to mine — that I never 
doubted. It was then 1 learned that in any but the mor- 
tal stages of the distemper, a low, sweet voice, uttering 
certain magical words, will quickly cure the blues . 


BROKEN LIVES. 


69 


Mr. Downs had considerately passed on, leaving 
Elsie and myself alone. But now, salutations ended, 
Elsie led the way into the parlor. I found myself con- 
fronted by Mrs. Downs and Hortense, and was just 
about to feel put out and half indignant, when I dis- 
covered that the manner of these ladies toward me 
was entirely changed. Not that they had ever in the 
slightest degree been impolite. On the contrary, they 
had been too polite. But now their greetings were 
heartily cordial. True, the aunt was cordial from a 
great height, and was as stately as ever, but she was 
genuinely hearty. As for the niece, she took my hand 
and held it while she looked me in the face with her 
soft, black eyes, and in gentlest accents congratulated 
me on my triumph, thanking me in the name of all 
womankind for what I had said, as she had seen it pub- 
lished. Really, at the moment I thought, as I looked 
into her face, that if Elsie were not, she would be the 
most beautiful and fascinating creature out of the skies. 
As it was, with Elsie standing there and looking on, her 
face filled with a great happiness, I think the move- 
ment of my already bounding blood was accelerated 
by this voice and face. Nor did Hortense stop at this, 
but leading me to a seat sat down beside me, at the 
same time motioning Elsie to sit on the other side. 
Thus seated between two such perfect creatures, with 
the stately aunt and the eccentric uncle looking on, the 
reader who has observed my former trepidation, will 
suppose me greatly embarrassed ; but you are mistaken, 
my friend. A week ago such a situation would have 
rendered me helpless. But when one has achieved, in 
the estimation of the world — his world — a triumph and 
is being lionized, he suddenly finds himself inspired by 
a self-possession, a sense of peerage, of which but yes- 
terday he had not dreamed. 

When an hour later dinner was announced, and I 
led the young ladies to the table, I was amazed at how 
entirely the barriers whictjjjad just now appeared so 
insuperable between Hortense and myself, had dis- 
appeared. 


7o 


BROKEN LIVES. 


CHAPTER X. 

A GREAT PARTY. A DISTINGUISHED GUEST. 

More than a year has passed since the reader last 
saw the sweet and gentle face of Elsie, the beautiful 
Hortense, the stately little aunt, the gracious uncle, and 
this scribe ; if indeed, he has ever at all had a look at 
the latter; for now that I come to think of it, I have as 
yet given no “ descriptive list ” of myself. 

It is a December evening of an almost Arctic winter, 
and at Christmas-tide. Mr. Mansard, a wealthy neigh- 
bor of Elsie’s uncle, is to give on this evening in honor 
of a distinguished visitor, a grand party, to which Elsie, 
Hortense and myself are bidden. It is 8 o’clock and I 
am making my toilet. I am not to be arrayed this 
night in brown tweed. The year now ending has 
wrought an Aladdin-like change in my affairs. My 
professional success is the marvel, as in a less generous 
profession, it would be the envy, of a bar far-famed for 
ability. I am no longer a mere student and copyist. 
For many months I have been the partner of Colonel 
Townshend, whose generous behavior to me has been 
more than fatherly, and would shame me but for a se- 
cret purpose, cherished, that when he ceases to work, 
he shall still remain my partner. 

I take a last look into the mirror which reflects my 
image from head to foot. I am dressed as becomes a 
gentleman about to attend an evening party. 

Wrapping myself in an ample cloak, for cloaks are 
worn this winter, I bend my steps toward the mansion 
now grown to be a second home to me; and wherein 
lives the one being without whom and whose love all 
the world would be, as I rate matters, nothing. 

Forgive me, mother, that I have exalted any other 
created being above thee. But doth not the Scriptures, 
so dear to thy Christian heart, say ; “ For this cause 

shall a man forsake father and mother, and cleave unto 
his wife ”? 


BROKEN LIVES. 7 1 

And in this era of liberal exegeses may not the text 
be construed to mean sweetheart as well ? 

Ah, mammy-mine, “ the Cradocks ” are a no more 
“ steadfast people ” than the Munros. 

“ O Felix, dear, we are growing so impatient was 
the second salutation from the lips of Elsie ; and she led 
me into the parlor. 

But we could not tarry, as the carriage was in 
waiting and we were, the young ladies insisted, already 
late. 

“ Who is this guest, to meet whom Mr. Mansard has 
invited all the young people of the city?" I asked, as 
we were driven on. 

“ An old friend, or rather a young friend, but an old 
acquaintance, a gentleman whom he knew in Cali- 
fornia, was Elsie’s answer. 

“ He is vastly wealthy, we hear, having gone to 
California years ago, and having been one of the fortu- 
nate few who had prudence enough to save the gold 
which they found,” was Hortense’s contribution to our 
stock of information. Then presently she added : “We 
saw him to-day — Elsie and I. He appeared, from our 
imperfect observation, to be strikingly handsome.” 

“ And you have kept this a secret from me, Elsie?” 
I cried. “ Not only kept it from me,” I went on, “ but 
are having me carry you right into the danger. Why, 
this is monstrous ! Jonas,” I cried, “stop! turn back 
— take us back !” And I made as if I were really about 
to have the carriage stop. 

This, you will say, was silly enough. And so it was; 
and I had not set it down here, but for the reception it 
had at the hands of my companions. True, Hortense 
laughed a little, as a matter of politeness, perhaps, 
rather than because she was amused. But Elsie ap- 
peared greatly annoyed. She said in suppressed, half- 
frightened tones : 

“ Pray, Felix, do not say such — ” Finding she hes- 
itated, 1 added, “silly things?” 

“Yes,” she answered, “it is so unlike you. You 
startle me. I am surely nervous, this evening.” 

She was so serious that I became ashamed of my 


72 


BROKEN LIVES. 


foolish sally and begged her pardon. But, for the rest 
of the journey, conversation lagged so that I was re- 
lieved when we reached our destination. 

Next to that of Elsie’s uncle, the residence of this 
host was the most imposing in'all the city. It was all 
ablaze. Two suites of large rooms — one on each side of 
a great, old-fashioned corridor or hallway, through the 
center, were already well filled with a brilliant com- 
pany of gaily dressed young people. Having mingled 
little in the world of fashion, it was to me a rare and 
pleasing scene. 

While my companions were known to all, and in 
turn knew all, most of the guests were strangers to me. 
But when we appeared in the parlors, we were soon in 
the midst of greetings and introductions, for my com- 
panions were universally sought after; and many were 
curious if nothing more to meet “ the young advocate,” 
who had sprung nso suddenly into the arena, full-armed. 

And now the daughter of the host is seen approach- 
ing, leaning on the arm of a stranger, almost gigantic, 
and moving with the bearing of a prince imperial. The 
group, of which we are the center, are instantly silent. 
As the stately figure approached, he bends his lofty 
gaze full upon my companions, taking, I thought, small 
note of myself. He is presented first to the young 
ladies, but I do not hear his name. Having saluted 
them with a grace and ease new to me, he turns 
toward me. 

“ Mr. Munro, Mr. Costo,” is all that the young 
hostess says. We bow, formally, neither, 1 think, 
speaking. 

The hostess had introduced the stranger to “Miss 
Downs,” instead of to Miss Cradock — for since Elsie 
had come as a child into her uncle’s family and had 
taken the place of her deceased cousin, Elsie Downs, 
she was often called by her uncle’s family name. 

Turning now toward Elsie, for the stranger had 
fallen into conversation with Hortense, I discover that 
her face is white ; even her lips are bloodless, and in her 
eyes is an expression which in all the years I had never 
seen the like of there. Taking her arm, I led her away. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


73 


Fortunately it happened that there were few people in 
the wide hall. I led her thither, and to a seat. 

“ In heaven’s name, Elsie, what ails you ?” I asked, 
in alarm. Turning her eyes, still full of the unwonted 
look, up toward mine, she gasped : 

“ Who is that man ?” 

“Why, Elsie — darling,” I said, “why do you ask? 
What does this mean? Poor child!” I continued, tak- 
ing her hand and stroking it gently. “ You are nerv- 
ous to-night. I fear my foolish behavior caused this. 
Is my darling ill ?” 

“ No, no,” she answered. “ I am not ill. But, oh, 
Felix, who is that stranger? Who is he?” 

“ Why, Elsie,” I answered, “this is not like my brave 
little girl. What is there about this stranger that so 
alarms you ?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know, Felix, dear ; I don’t know, but I 
have seen that face in my dreams ; surely I have, and 
there is something awful connected with it.” Then 
after a pause, as if reflecting, she added * 

“ I have, 1 surely have seen those eyes before this 
night !” 

1 had scarcely seen his eyes at all. Indeed, I had 
seen only in general outline a stranger of uncommon 
stature, haughty bearing and great dignity. One thing 
about his face, besides that it was a strong face, I had ob- 
served, namely, that on one cheek there was an ugly scar, 
deep and long, which appeared to mar what, else, would 
have been a handsome, lofty countenance. But now, I 
determined to more closely observe the stranger. Hav- 
ing with loving solicitude urged Elsie to dismiss her 
fears, and seeing that her self possession had been in part 
at least restored, I led her back to Hortense, and leaving 
her with a company of gay young friends, quietly 
sought out the stalwart guest. I found him in earnest 
discourse with several gentlemen, the host among them. 
I soon learned that the host and his guest were recount- 
ing the exploit in which the wound producing the ugly 
scar had been received. 

“ Mr. Costo was defending an emigrant train against 
the Indians, when one of the red devils hurled his tom- 


74 


BROKEN LIVES. 


ahawk into his face,” was the statement I heard the 
host make to the group of listeners. 

While I listened the stranger turned his face toward 
me, though not seeming to see me, so that a strong 
light fell upon it. For the life of me, I could not have 
told what it was in this face that affected me strangely. 
I endeavored to persuade myself that the sensation was 
produced by my sympathy with Elsie’s mood ; but this 
scarcely sufficed. 

In repose, the aspect of the stranger was remark- 
able. His head and face were large; his complexion 
sallow ; his hair, thick and black, and worn short ; his 
nose, large, but well-shapen ; his eyes full, large and 
dark, and wearing the most placid look of indifference. 
There was in his bearing, evidence of culture. His 
hands and feet were, for his size, small. He could not 
have been less than six feet three, in stature, and the ugly 
scar aside, his face was what all the world call hand- 
some, and many would have esteemed it noble. In age 
I judged him to be thirty years. His host had said of 
him, that in his youth he had gone to California and 
prosecuted there a successful career, that they had met 
(the host having gone thither also, in search of fort- 
une) and had for a time been partners. But several 
years ago, the host had returned to his family, since 
when he had heard only occasionally from Costo, until 
a few months before, when he had received a letter, 
foretelling his present visit. Costo was reputed 
wealthy. 

He dressed with elegance and in perfect taste, ex- 
cept that he wore a great profusion of jewelry. Indeed, 
its quantity would have appeared vulgar but for its 
quality. One of these jewels, a diamond worn on his 
bosom, shone with such brilliance as fairly dazzled the 
eyes of the beholder. 

Having inspected this person, to meet whom all the 
quality of the town had been bidden to the Mansard 
mansion, and not without being impressed by his mag- 
nificence, I returned to Elsie, whom I found with Hor- 
tense and other familiar friends. She greeted me anx- 
iously, her eyes shining with a strange light, her face 


BROKEN LIVES. 


7 5 


still pale. Again I offered my arm, and excusing our- 
selves to our friends, I led her down the great room and 
into the corridor. She clung to my arm as if an open 
enemy were menacing her liberty. Seated alone again, 
I waited for her to begin. 

As if afraid of the answer she was to receive, and 
still clinging to my arm, she turned her face up toward 
mine, as she whispered : “ O Felix, who is that man?” 

I essayed to answer with cheerful indifference, though 
I was anything but indifferent, in fact : 

“Indeed, I have not the slightest idea. You are 
right, my darling ; if you ever saw that face before this 
evening, it was, sure enough, in your dreams.” 

As if somewhat relieved, she went on: “Tell me 
truly, Felix, does that face suggest to you no face of the 
past? Does it not suggest — ?” She did not finish; 
and was it a shudder that shook her like an ague now ? 

“ Why, Elsie,” I said tenderly, as I drew her to my 
bosom, “you are ill; my brave little girl is ill. Let us 
go home.” 

“ O no,” she whispered, “ that will but attract atten- 
tion. Let us remain for a time, yet. You will stay 
near me, Felix. Do not leave me, please.” 

“ Not for a moment,” I said, kissing her dear, sweet 
face, and now, somehow in spite of myself, sharing her 
alarm. 

Whether in the midst of her friends or strolling with 
me alone through the apartments, she still clung ner- 
vously to my arm. At length Hortense came to my 
side and whispered : 

“ Elsie is ill ; let us go.” But my darling heard and 
quickly answered : “ No, no, cousin, I am not ill.” 

I never have been able to understand why it was, 
that in this frame of mind she was averse to going 
home ; for now, when Hortense spoke, others were 
leaving and to have left would have challenged no re- 
mark or attention. But I had determined to go and 
was moving through the crowd in search of Hortense, 
when I discovered her on the arm of the stranger, as 
they made their way toward us. Elsie, too, saw their 
approach and shrank still closer to me. Again the 


;6 


BROKEN LIVES. 


stranger greeted me, but his eyes were bent on Elsie’s 
face ; and now that 1 saw them better, they were won- 
derful eyes. Hortense and he had been speaking of 
Elsie ; for turning to her, he said in a voice low and 
musical, and with elaborate politeness : “ Ah, pardon 

me, but I have just learned from your fair cousin, that 
Miss Mansard, through an excusable inadvertence, 
wrongly announced your name as 4 Miss Downs.’ It 
is Miss Cradock, I am told. To be sure it is a slight 
matter, since the name given is that of your honored 
kinsman, but as a stranger in your city, I would wish 
to know so charming a person by her own proper 
name.” He uttered these last words with a gesture 
the most graceful I had ever seen ; and with an expres- 
sion and in a tone perfectly charming. I felt, rather 
than saw, that Elsie was shrinking from him and toward 
me, more and more ; but she answered in accents steady 
and brave: 

“ You are very gracious, Mr. Costo ; the mistake 
was most natural ; as, having lived with my uncle since 
childhood, I am often called by his name.’’ 

The stranger saw that Elsie was clinging nervously 
to my arm. He went on in the same gentle voice to 
utter other polite speeches that I cannot record now, 
for I did not hear them then. For at the moment when 
Elsie ceased speaking, I saw something in the eyes of 
the handsome Mr. Costo which for the moment stopped 
my blood as if frozen, and gave me a sensation of chok- 
ing. By great effort I mastered this, and at the first 
pause in his smooth speech, said : 

“ Miss Cradock is not quite well, this evening. I 
have urged her to go, but she is loth to leave such 
agreeable company; though, I think, she has grown 
worse instead of better.” 

How earnestly he expressed regret and sympathy. 
He joined me in urging Elsie to go, but speaking for 
all the company, protested how profoundly sorry they 
would be at learning of her indisposition, and that by 
reason of it they must lose her radiant presence ; and 
turning toward Hortense, he added : “ And that of 

your charming cousin.” 


BROKEN LIVES. 77 

But all this time I could see in his eyes that expres- 
sion which had so stunned me. 

As he turned from us Elsie breathed a deep sigh of 
relief, as she said to me, softly : “ Let us go at once.” 

Our journey homeward was a silent one. 

When I had led the young ladies to the porch, a 
servant said that Mr. Downs had charged her to bid 
me in his name to remain over night, and to say that 
my room was in readiness. For this good man had set 
apart in his spacious mansion a room for my exclusive 
use, and I sometimes out of gratitude and deference to 
him, occupied it. I was pleased now, as I was desirous 
of some further discourse with Elsie, and could not 
keep Jonas, who was to carry me home, waiting. 

Seated alone with her in the library, Elsie looked 
silently into my face for a long moment, then in a 
hoarse whisper, asked : “ Felix, dear, am I losing my 

senses? Tell me, do you think there can be danger of 
my losing my reason, as my poor aunt Elsie did?” 

" Her manner alarmed me. She really had misgiv- 
ings as to her mental state. I drew very near her, took 
her hand in both my own, as I answered : 

“ No, Elsie, your mind is all right. You have shown 
to-night that its power of penetration is extraordinary 
— phenomenal.” 

“ O then, is it true? Do not tell me my suspicions 
are true ! Do not tell me that it is indeed — he.” 

“ Why, Elsie, my darling,” I cried entreatingly, 
“ what is the meaning of this ? Suppose this man is 
indeed, Otto Castelar?” But as I uttered this name, 
she shrieked aloud and clung about my neck, trembling 
violently. She lay in my arms shivering as with an 
ague. It was a long time before I ventured to make 
any suggestion, and then I gently entreated her to re- 
tire. She had grown calmer, when she said : 

“ Felix, darling, 1 must tell you more ; I must know 
more. You were about to ask me just now, what dif- 
ference it could make, if this man is indeed — he. O 
Felix, if this whole world were mine, I would gladly 
give it to know that it could make no difference with 
me — with you, with our future !” 


78 


BROKEN LIVES. 


And as she said this, though struggling to maintain 
calmness, a shudder shook her, and there was in the 
tones of her voice that which made my heart ache. 
She went on : 

“ Do not, pray, Felix, do not withhold your opinion 
as to the identity of this man. I observed your look 
just now, while he talked with us. You saw then, what 
I had seen at once. O Felix, there is in all this wicked 
world, but one human being with eyes like that.” 

I saw it was useless to attempt postponement of the 
topic, and so said : “ I ought to be honest with you, 
Elsie, even though I try to cheat myself. I fear your 
suspicion is correct. I try to persuade myself that it is 
a merely chance resemblance of these eyes to those ; 
but that last look bent upon us, is too strikingly like 
what you think it.” 

“ Ah, Felix,” she answered, “if it were but that> I 
might doubt, but I do not, alas ! depend upon my recol- 
lection of the eyes we saw years ago. 1 have seen them 
a thousand times in my dreams. In these, I have seen 
the boy grow into a comely youth, the youth into man- 
hood, and that face was as familiar to me to-night as if 
I had seen it every week, through all the years.” 

She had said this slowly and in the same suppressed 
voice. She lifted her eyes to mine, for till now, she had 
spoken while gazing vacantly straight away, and look- 
ing into my face with a great fear in her own, went on : 

“ Even that hideous scar was familiar to me. I can 
recall the year and the month of the year when first in 
my dreams, I saw it — a long, bleeding wound, sheer 
across the side of his face.” 

“ In God’s name, I entreat you to say no more ! 
You will drive me mad!” I cried, shaken with a sense 
of terror. She went on, as if I had not spoken : 

“ And forever in these visions I see you, Felix ; 
sometimes far away, at others near; but struggle as I 
may, and I always seem to struggle to go to you, and 
you appear equally anxious to come to me, 1 never suc- 
ceed. It always ends in his getting between us, and 
keeping us hopelessly apart.” 

As she ended, everything was in a maze and com- 


BROKEN LIVES, 


79 

motion before my eyes. A thousand jarring sounds in- 
vaded my senses. I knew I was deathly pale. I gasped 
for breath ! I saw dimly the outlines of Elsie’s face, as 
frightened at my aspect, she looked a moment upon me, 
then turned and flew from the room, crying for help. I 
think there was a brief moment of unconsciousness, and 
then I exerted all my power in one supreme effort to 
arouse myself, to throw off the incubus under which I 
lay as one dead. Then I saw Elsie flying toward me. 
She, I knew, thought me dead. She threw herself upon 
me, crying: 

“ Oh, my darling, I have killed you — murdered you !” 

She bathed my face, while all the time I was acutely 
conscious, but unable to move. I even remembered that 
I had suffered a like attack and had been supposed past 
aid, at the death of my father. 

But now others of the household arrive, in answer to 
Elsie’s cries. Slowly I grew able to move, and after 
a time to speak. I was aided to my room, and Cooney 
begged to be allowed to remain with me. I was glad 
to have the faithful fellow at hand. I am sure he did 
not sleep. Several times during the night, I heard 
gentle raps on the door, and when Cooney answered 
them, there was a murmur of voices just outside. It 
was Elsie, come to inquire after me. 

I slept little. My mind was dwelling upon the 
events of the night. I formed two resolves: One that 
Elsie and I must keep our discovery a secret ; the other 
that Otto Castelar must be kept in ignorance that we 
even suspected his identity. 

I must also, I felt, keep from Elsie all knowledge of 
my dream, of more than a year ago, so like her own, in 
which, as the reader will recall, Otto Castelar had 
barred my way to her, and which coincidence had so 
affected me this night. 

On joining the family at breakfast, I saw that Elsie had 
been so occupied with thoughts of my strange attack, 
that it had driven into the background all thought of 
last evening’s discoveries, and she was, doubtless, far 
more cheerful than she would have been if she had 
not been alarmed on my account. I explained to my 


8o 


BROKEN LIVES. 


friends that I had once before suffered a similar attack. 

“ Was there any special reason for the former attack ?” 
questioned my host. 

I could but tell the occasion, whereupon he eyed 
both Elsie and myself sharply, as he asked : 

“ To what do you attribute your attack last night?” 

I had expected this to follow, and answered 
promptly ; for there must be nothing said or done to 
provoke inquiry : 

“ It must have been induced by the scenes and ex- 
citement of the evening. You forget, Mr. Downs, that 
I am unused to such occasions and their incident excite- 
ments.” 

I could plainly see that this explanation did not sat- 
isfy the host, but he delicately forebore further inquiry, 
though he continued from time to time to curiously 
eye Elsie, into whose face something of the disturbed 
look of last night, had crept again. 

“ Elsie,” I said, as soon as we were alone, “ I am 
sorry to recur to the painful subject of last night, but I 
want to entreat that under no circumstances, you will 
speak of our discovery. If you should chance to meet 
this man again, pray endeavor to act toward him as if 
he were in fact what he affects to be — a stranger. 
Much — we cannot tell how much — may depend upon 
this.” She drew near, saying : 

“ He already knows that I at least have recognized 
him. And may not this hasten his departure ? Oh, 
Felix, if I knew at this moment that he was a thousand 
miles away, I should be the happiest being in all this 
world !” 

After speaking words of courage and faith, which, 
alas, 1 did not myself feel, and which sounded like 
mockery, I tenderly took my leave, with a heart pained 
and sore, and with an oppressive sense that a great 
danger menaced our happiness. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


81 


CHAPTER II. 

DEATH OF ELSIE’S UNCLE. 

“ Wolves hunt in packs.” And is it true that 
calamities ride down upon us, double ? 

An hour before nightfall, on this same day, a mes- 
senger brought me tidings that Mr. Downs was dying. 
I hastened to his bedside, for I could scarcely have 
loved my father more than I now loved this generous 
old man. He had been attacked by what appeared a 
fatal hemorrhage. He lay with half closed eyes, and 
but for the gentle breathing, there remained no sign of 
life. I soon learned from one of the physicians, what I 
already feared, that there was slight chance that the 
patient would rally, and none that he would recover. 

Poor Elsie stood bravely by her uncle. Hortense 
and her aunt were prostrated by the sudden blow. 

For a week I remained, night and day, at the house, 
and for most of the time at the bedside. Elsie and I 
were rarely both out of the room. We could not think 
of trusting our dearest friend in the hands of hired 
nurses, alone. And the wife was so ill as to require the 
care of Hortense. 

It was some days after the attack that the patient 
appeared, for the time, to notice his surroundings. 
Elsie and I were alone with him ; he opened his eyes and 
they rested on the face of his niece. And there came 
into them such a yearning look, that Elsie was unable 
to restrain her tears. His lips moved. I was stting in 
such position on the other side of the bed, that he did 
not see me. Elsie stooped to listen. He whispered, 
only the word : 

- Felix.” 

1 did not hear, but Elsie answered, softly : 

“ Felix is here, uncle ; he has not been out of the 
house an hour since you fell ill.’’ 

I moved around the bed and stood by the side of 
Elsie. He gazed at us for a long time with a pleased 
6 


82 


BROKEN LIVES. 


smile, then slowly closed his eyes. A little later he 
opened them again, and again his lips moved. Elsie 
bent to listen. In broken whispers he said : 

“ I must speak with you and Felix, before I go, but 
am too weak now.” 

Elsie repeated it to me. I spoke to him cheerfully 
and hopefully of his recovery, but saw that he was in- 
credulous. It was agreed between Elsie and myself 
that one of us should always be by his bedside, and that 
when he should feel able to speak, the other should be 
summoned. 

Thrice within the first week, once with his host, the 
stranger, Costo, had called to inquire after the condi- 
tion of the sick man. 

Ten days had elapsed and now our friend was so 
much improved, and had grown so much stronger, that 
the physicians began to speak hopefully ; though as 
often as they did so in his presence, the patient would 
gravely shake his head. 

He had been stricken while in his library, and still 
remained there, his bed having been brought down. 

About 8 o’clock one evening, Elsie and I were again 
alone with him, one on each side of the bed, but I 
farthest away. 

“ Come to this side, Felix, that both may be near me 
and each other,” he said. I obeyed. He was propped 
up so with pillows all about him that he sat almost 
erect. He took Elsie’s hand and lifting it, gently kissed 
it, then presently laid it in mine. For a time he sat 
looking silently into our faces with an expression of 
loving tenderness in his eyes; then he said, slowly: 
“ Yes, God has so ordered ! You know that such is the 
faith of your mother, as it was of your lamented father, 
Elsie. And 1 have heard that it is the faith in which 
you, too, have been reared, Felix ; that God orders 
these things.” And again he looked at us silently, as 
we stood with bowed heads, waiting to hear his gra- 
cious words. He spoke in the hollow voice of the sick: 

“ What God hath joined together, let no man put 
asunder,” came presently, in solemn accents. And the 
hand I held in mine trembled as “ a reed shaken by the 
wind,” and Elsie drew nearer to me. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


83 


“M 1 1 ' ” '* 1 “you have always 



loved 


know your stupid 


uncle suspected it. I used before I had seen you, to 
feel jealous of you, my son. But when I met you, my 
old heart gave a great bound and I said to myself, 

‘ That’s the boy for my Elsie for you had a comely, 
honest face, Felix, if I do say it in your presence. And 
then, when I grasped your hand and felt that it was 
hard with honest toil, and saw that your face was 
bronzed, I lifted my heart toward heaven and prayed 
that it might be God’s will that nothing should ever 
come between you, my children.” 

He spoke slowly and solemnly. At the last words, 
Elsie trembled again. Having gathered strength, he 
went on : 

“ Although your mother had spoken so kindly of 
Felix when she visited us, that I had no doubt of her 
sentiments toward him, yet when I saw, certainly, how 
matters stood, I felt it my duty to write and apprise 
her. She carried the letter to your mother, Felix, and 
they talked it all over, and I have her answer. It ap- 
pears that the good women both have felt from your 
very early childhood, that you were destined for each 
other, and have never ceased to pray for that end ; 
though neither knew what was in the other’s heart, 
until the interview over my letter. 

“ I have said all this because I am going to leave 
you, and wished you to know how I feel on a subject 
so important to you both.” 

At these words Elsie could scarcely suppress her 
sobs, while I was little less affected. She lifted her 
face streaming with tears, and said, gently: “O my 
darling uncle, please do not say you are going to leave 
us; you must not, shall not go!” And she leaned her 
head on his shoulder and gently stroked his face. 

“There, there now, my child,” he said, “let me go 
on while I may. I feel that it would be a great comfort 
if these old eyes could see you perfectly happy. I have 
counted on this joy so long that I cannot endure to be 
disappointed of it. I would not distress you, but I am 
qnite certain that if your marriage does not take place 


8 4 


BROKEN LIVES. 


at once, I shall not live to witness it. What do my 
children say ?” 

For a long moment both were silent and motionless, 
then Elsie laid her hand in mine. 1 understood, and 
simply said : “ To-morrow ?’’ and softly the sweet voice 

answered, “ To-morrow.” 

Deeply touched at our behavior, the dying man laid 
a hand on each bowed head, as we knelt before him : 
“ O may God bless you, my children!” he said. “It 
was not now, nor so that you had arranged your nup- 
tials, but your acquiescence the better proves how much 
you love your dying old uncle. For Felix, in my child 
ish fondness, I have longed to hear you call me 4 Uncle 
Hugh,’ as Elsie does.” I called him so now, expressing 
my gratitude in every form of speech which a grateful 
heart could suggest. 

The lights were burning low. I had risen, and 
chancing to turn my eyes toward a north window, the 
curtains whereof had been lifted, they fell upon the 
towering form of Otto Castelar, standing just without 
wrapped in a great cloak and as motionless as a statue. 
The moonlight falling upon him, made him as plainly 
visible to me, as we to him. He saw that he was dis- 
covered, and he turned and moved away. Looking 
quickly at Elsie, I perceived that she had not seen him. 
I was not conscious of the degree of my agitation ; but 
a moment later, when Elsie looked into my face, what 
she saw there sufficed to alarm her. She arose, saying 
eagerly, but in a tone so low that the patient could not 
hear: “Felix, what ails you? You are ill again.” 
And taking my hand, she led me to a sofa. 

I was too glad that she had not suspected the real 
cause, to deny that I was ill. I said that I was better 
now, and urged her to attend to what her uncle might 
wish to say further. She did as requested. And now 
that I could reflect on the behavior of Costo, I was 
seized with one of those attacks of rage, unreasoning 
fury, of which to my shame, I have had occasion to 
speak before. I think that if at the moment I had been 
armed, I should have followed the eavesdropper and 
had an accounting at once. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


85 

But the sick man speaks again, and I returned to 
the bedside. He was saying to Elsie: “This is all 
that I felt I must say now ; and since you are both 
weary with long watching, let me persuade you to go 
and sleep to-night.” He appeared so solicitous, that 
when the nurses came, we took our leave of him. 

We repaired to the parlor near the library, and were 
alone. Elsie at once recurred to the strange look which 
she had observed in my face. Kneeling before me on 
a rug as she often did, and looking up into my face, she 
said : 

“ I thought just now that you were ill ; I was so con- 
fused I could not think rightly. But 1 remember now; 
it was not the aspect of illness, at all. It was that other 
look, Felix, which I have seen from time to time in your 
face, since ever we were children together — the look 
which I saw in the forest that night. What did it 
mean? What provoked it? Did the words of my poor, 
dear uncle suggest anything — anybody — O Felix, why 
does he speak as if he feared some one may come be- 
tween us? Was it that which caused you to look so?” 

The questions followed upon each other so fast that 
I had no time to reflect upon an answer that should be 
at once true and fitting. I dared not add to my poor 
darling’s anxiety. I evaded : 

“ I fear, my Elsie, that the recital of your dreams 
and your constant expression of apprehension has ren- 
dered me morbid. Your uncle’s words were calculated 
to remind me of what you had said. And yet, now 
that we reflect upon them, there is really nothing which 
should so affect us. It is but natural that loving us so, 
he should pray that nothing may come between us. It 
is, indeed, but a prayer for our happiness, and should 
excite in our hearts only sentiments of gratitude, not 
those of foreboding.” 

My poor, stumbling, evasive answer had accom- 
plished more than a truer and better might. It touched 
her heart. 

“ Yes, yes ; I know I am ungrateful,” she said. “Here 
1 am, alarmed at the kindest solicitude of this ‘best of 
men. Instead of being happy at the prospect lying be- 


86 


BROKEN LIVES. 


fore me, I am seeking among flowers to see if, per- 
chance, there may not lurk a thorn. Forgive me, Felix, 
for I have filled your heart, too, with forebodings. I 
know I have, for you are scarcely yourself since that 
night. I thought I had killed you outright, then ; and 
when I found I had not, I made all sorts of compacts 
with myself, never to act so again. I am surely losing 
my courage.” 

I had lifted her to a seat by my side. And now I re- 
minded her of our promise that on the morrow we 
were to be joined in that holy estate, wherein none 
could interpose between us. 

For the moment Elsie seemed perfectly happy. 

“Yes,” she cried as there shone in her eyes the light 
of a great joy. “ Yes, uncle Hugh is right; God orders 
all things ! Our marriage will put it beyond the power 
and the hope of any one to get between us. It will 
render such design futile. Ah, I am sure it is all for 
the best.” 

And then drawing nearer, and speaking with bated 
breath, she concluded : 

“ Seeing his purpose defeated and his errand a hope- 
less one, he will go his way. And oh, my darling, if 
God will grant me that neither sleeping nor waking I 
shall ever see that face again, I will repine at nothing !” 

We had much to say of the morrow, and the happy 
but solemn event appointed. At length, and when the 
night was drawing toward the morning, obeying my 
earnest command, Elsie retired. 

Tenderly we parted on this night into which had 
come so many events. 

Oh, gentle angel of repose, touch with thy soothing 
finger, the eyes of this well beloved maiden, and close 
them in balmy, gracious sleep ! Guard her pillow 
against every disturbing vision and bar, with sweet for- 
getfulness, the gates of recollection ; or if so be, thou 
must lift the mysterious veil of memory, and there shall 
come to her in the darkness, faces, let them, dear angel, 
be the faces of those she loves, that her soul be not 
shaken nor disturbed, for a little season ; for soon, alas ! 
she must awaken to sorrow and heartache and tears ! 


BROKEN LIVES. 


87 


****** 

I know not how long I sat alone, musing, my mind 
filled with visions of the future, my heart stirred by 
emotions, strangely diverse. I had at last fallen asleep, 
when suddenly I was rudely shaken, and a voice said, 
hurriedly : 

“Mr. Munro, come ! Quick!” 

Before fairly awake, I was hastening toward the 
library. But when I reached the bedside, Elsie’s uncle 
was dead. A recurrence of internal hemorrhage had 
quickly done its work. 

A minute more and the members of the family be- 
gan to arrive. First the wife, looking older by many 
years than when the reader saw her last ; for she had 
loved her husband tenderly. She is stunned by the 
blow and moans so piteously, and looks so humble that 
one forgets that this is the stately dame of the past. 

She is followed by Hortense, wringing her hands 
and weeping ; her wondrous hair streaming about her 
shoulders, her dark eyes with not a vestige of their 
look of proud indifference remaining, her olive com- 
plexion, now darker by contrast with the white wrapper 
she has hastily put on ; she seems a fitting companion 
of the messenger who but now has touched and frozen 
the blood in the generous heart of her kinsman. 

And last, for she had fallen into deep slumber, came 
Elsie. Not a moan, not an exclamation escaped her 
compressed and bloodless lips ; not a tear came to mois- 
ten her burning eyes. Her face, white, and wearing an 
expression of infinite pain, appeared like the wife’s, 
much older than when a few hours ago, we had seen it. 
With clasped hands she stood gazing upon the quiet 
face, now wearing that patient look which comes and 
smoothes, at last, all the wrinkles from the faces of the 
aged, making them look young again. Her bosom 
swelled with a great agony as she gazed apparently un- 
conscious of the presence of any but her beloved dead, 
into this peaceful face. Slowly she bent and kissed the 
marble brow, reverently, and turning away walked to 
a sofa, into which she sank. 

There are seasons when words are mockery ; states 


88 


BROKEN LIVES. 


of the hearts and souls of us which no speech can com- 
passionate. We may silently pity the sufferer, but we 
are unthinking mockers, if we attempt more. There is 
no friendship so close, no love so tender, that it may 
intrude at such moment. 

I had done what I could to soothe the other niece, 
who constantly appeared about to sink under the blow. 
Having persuaded both her and the wife to return to 
the latter’s apartments, I quietly took a seat by Elsie’s 
side. Taking her hands presently, into my own, I 
gently unclasped them. She turned and gazed into my 
face with such a strangely absent expression as fairly 
made my heart stand still. I led her gently away and 
into the room where we had sat last night, for it was 
morning now. 

At this moment occurred an incident, which but for 
Elsie’s condition would have been inopportune, but 
which I welcomed ; so anxious was I to have her mind 
diverted from the sad thoughts now engrossing it. 

Cooney, who had been admitted into the library to 
see the face of his benefactor, was heard to inquire for 
Elsie and myself. The housekeeper told him where 
we were, but admonished him not to disturb us. He 
paid no heed, but came in his quaint, ambling gait, 
almost running straight to us. His eyes, still suffused 
with tears, were strained to their utmost width and big 
with momentous intelligence. He paused in front of 
us and stood panting for words, with which to begin. 
What he was to say was for our ears only, and he 
looked about warily to see if there were others who 
might hear. 

“ Oh, chillers,” he cried, trying very hard to sup- 
press his voice, while his little wide-open eyes rolled 
from side to side. “ Ise seed suthin ; Cooney’s seed 
suthin ’at ’ll s’prise ’es chillers, ’1 warrunt. Its s’prised 
me tull I aint no mo’ sense ’an ’e fool.” 

“ What have you seen, Cooney ?” I asked, in a voice 
to reassure him. “ Sit down,” I continued, “ and take 
your time and tell us.” 

He sat down, still panting. 

“ W’at ez I seed?” he cried. “ W’at ez Cooney 


BROKEN LIVES. 


89 


seed ? Oh, Muster Felix, it’s mazin’! I ne’er’d a bleev’d 
eze ere eyez, ef ’a wasn’t jest my owen eyez, ’cept Elsie’s 
an’ yourn, Muster Felux, ’a course I’s bleev’d ’em.” 


Then bending forward, he continued, in a hoarse 
whisper, capable of being heard at a greater distance 
than his audible speech: 

“ ise seed Otto Casteel !” for it was, as we remem- 
bered now, by this name the poor fellow had always 
called Castelar. 

Having said this, he drew back, straightening him- 
self up, with that look of importance common to silly 
people. But seeing that we evinced no surprise, the 
look changed to one of astonishment. He glanced from 
one to the other, inquiringly ; when he seemed to have 
concluded that we did not believe him. He bent for- 
ward again, and in whining tones, went on : 

“ ’E chillers b’leeve ’at pore Cooney’s a lyin’, ur’ at’e 
doanknow. But, ef ’ese ey-es ain’t seed Otter Casteel 
two times ’a night, ’en ’e never seed ’e chillers, nur 
nuther uv ’em.” 

Elsie had not spoken, but she did now, in such pa- 
thetic tones as seemed greatly to affect the simple fellow. 

“ Cooney, do you love Felix and me ?” 

Coone) T dropped upon his knees and began wringing 
his hands in the manner of supplication, crying mean- 
time : 

“ O Elsie, please doan look ’at ere way at pore 
Cooney. Please doan ax ’at ere question — do Cooney 
love ’eze chillers ? O Elsie, Elsie ! O Muster Felux, 
w’at do ’e pore chile mean, a axm me does I love ’er — 
’00 ez nuss’d an’ ’kearn fur ’er uver sins she wus a wee- 
nin,’ a’mos’.” 

And he was growing so loud, that I took hold of 
him, and it was only by shaking and scolding him a lit- 
tle, that I was able to quiet him. 

“ Elsie does not mean that you do not love us ; she 
knows you do love us. But listen, she wants to say 
something to you, because you love us,” I explained. 

Elsie then said to him, as he sat with his eyes and 
mouth open: 

“ Cooney, you must not tell any one that you have 


90 


BROKEN LIVES. 


seen this man. Remember, you are to tell no one. If 
you should, you would do Felix and me great harm.” 

But she added in a moment, eagerly : 

“ Where did you see him, Cooney ?” 

I feared this and the answer, but saw no remedy. 

“ I see ’m a lookin’ in at ’e winner, las’ night, an’ I 
see ’im a lookin’ in at ’e winner a mornin’; ’e was a 
lookin at ayr uncle, ’e was.” 

Elsie turned her eyes upon me and there arose in 
them again, the look of terror I had seen before, as she 
said, in the same tones in which she always spoke of this 
man : 

“ O Felix, Felix, it was that you saw last night ; and 
you did not tell me .” 

“ It could only have distressed ycu, Elsie,’’ I an- 
swered. 

I learned that evening, that while I was absent for 
an hour, Mr. Costo called to leave his card and con- 
dolences. 

“ It was kind and thoughtful of him,” said Hortense. 

“ It was audaciously impertinent,” I thought, but 
said nothing. 


CHAPTER XII. 

COSTO AND FELIX MEET. HORTENSE MAKES SOME DIS- 
CLOSURES. 

Scarcely a week had passed after the funeral of Mr. 
Downs, before the stranger called at the mansion ; not 
in a merely formal way, for he spent quite an hour in 
discourse with Hortense. As he took his leave, I met 
him on the walk. I confess that the meeting greatly 
agitated me, but I managed to suppress all outward 
signs. He wore as he approached, that same lofty look 
of indifference observed before, and which now I sud- 
denly discovered, was simulated. I saw moreover, that 
while pretending not to, he was eyeing me narrowly. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


91 


I returned his look of scrutiny, not furtively, but openly, 
and with no slight feeling of indignation. We were at 
this moment, as both knew, mortal foes. It was how- 
ever, far from the purpose of each to disclose the fact 
to the other. 

“ Shall I simply bow, and pass on, or shall I stay 
and sound him?” I asked myself as he drew near. But 
he saved me the trouble of answer. Quickly extend- 
ing his hand, he said with much apparent cordiality: 

“I had hoped to meet you at the house of your afflic- 
ted friends, aud protracted my stay in expectation that 
you would come. I am glad indeed, to see you again. 
I have heard many commendations of your devotion to 
the good man who has just died. Nothing so distin- 
guishes the noble from the ignoble of our race, as the 
quality of gratitude. The Spanish have a proverb like 
this, as rendered in our clumsier English : ‘ No grate- 
ful man is an unfaithful man.’ ” 

All this he said in that musical, fascinating voice, 
which even prejudice can scarcely resist. I looked 
gravely into his eyes as I answered with more elabo- 
ration than was my wont : “ You are always equipped 

with ready and gracious words, an accomplishment I 
sometimes envy in others, being of plain speech myself ; 
but none the less I appreciate what you so kindly say.” 

“ Ah, you under-estimate your powers, I am sure, Mr. 
Munro. No other youth of twenty years ever achieved 
such fame by a single effort in the forum, or on the ros- 
trum, as you have. To belittle your powers in this re- 
gard, is to shame your humble, plodding friends, who 
must walk while you soar.” 

But this sort of rencounter was always distasteful 
to me, as I am sure it must be to every candid and earn- 
est man — in short, to him who is not a trifler, and I 
sought to end it. Besides, there began to spring up 
within me a sense of indignation at his bold imperti- 
nence. 

I did not answer at once, nor at all in kind. I hesi- 
tated, but continued to look him gravely in the face. 
And now there was no mistaking the aspect; there 
spread slowly over his eyes, that misty film, that shut 


9 2 


BROKEN LIVES. 


in, as effectually as if he had closed their lids, every 
expression which before had played within them. 

I said, “ Perhaps you will return to the house of our 
friends with me.” And I was moving- on, when to my 
amazement and horror (such are the wages of duplic- 
ity,) he deliberately turned about, and joined me, say- 
ing that it would give him pleasure to do so. For a 
moment I was speechless, but presently managed to 
say, “ I hope you found the young ladies in a more 
cheerful frame than they have enjoyed since their great 
affliction.” In my heart I was saying : “ Has Elsie met 
him?” As if reading my mind, he answered : 

“ I did not have the pleasure of seeing Miss Cra- 
dock, who is, I learn, indisposed this afternoon. Her 
cousin is quite as cheerful as could be expected.” 

“ Poor girl,” 1 said, thinking only of Elsie; “it is a 
hard blow for her loving heart. Her affection for her 
uncle was as deep and tender as the love of a daughter 
for her father.” 

“You refer to Miss Cradock?’’ he questioned, in 
strange tones. 

“ Certainly, certainly,” I answered. 

We had reached the house and were shown to the 
parlor, where Hortense yet remained. 

I said to the little girl who served on such occasions : 

“ Here, Susie, carry my card to Miss Cradock; but 
wait a moment, I will say that if she is not feeling able 
to come down, she must not exert herself.” What I did 
write on the card was: “ Elsie, Costo is here. It is ev- 
ident that you must meet him sooner or later. If you 
are not too ill, come.” The girl started, but she met 
Elsie at the door. She had seen from her window the 
meeting between Costo and myself, and that he had re- 
turned with me. She had moreover been moved by the 
same thought that had inspired my note. 

She was dressed in mourning apparel. As she stood 
in the hall, reading my message, I thought she had never 
looked so lovely. Having finished reading, she turned 
and walked toward us. And now, that I saw her face 
clearly, I felt no longer any misgiving. It was full of 
lofty courage. Her eyes shone with a light that there 


BROKEN LIVES. 


93 


was no mistaking. Glancing quickly at Costo, I saw 
that he was observing her from behind those odious 
barricades. 

Courage is contagious. I determined that I would 
learn more than I knew of the mind of this man, despite 
his disguise. 

He arose, and greeted Elsie with his usual perfect 
grace. She returned the greeting with undaunted eye 
and placid face, and as if he had been the most common- 
place acquaintance. As she turned to greet me, I gave 
her a look, which plainly said ; “ Bravely done, darling. 
You are yourself, again. Let us have this matter out.” 
She understood me perfectly. 

“ I found Mr. Costo leaving and brought him back. 
I am sorry to hear you are indisposed this evening,” I 
said. She looked surprised, but answered : 

“ Of course, Mr. Munro, I am not quite well, but I 
am feeling better than usual this afternoon.” And she 
looked inquiringly at Hortense, but it was evident that 
she had not given the statement out. 

Perhaps it was malice ; it may have been but a 
method of reaching results; one can never quite under- 
stand the operations of his own mind when intent on an 
object. At all events, I said as if it were a wholly un- 
important matter, as ordinarily it would have been : 

“ Mr. Costo informed me just now that he had 
learned that you were indisposed ; but I am delighted to 
see you looking almost yourself again.” 

For the first time, the stranger showed signs of an- 
noyance, and appeared to be nonplussed. But he rallied 
quickly. 

“ Ah !” he began, in that peerless voice, “ I was at 
fault. I stated to Mr. Munro an inference as a fact, 
and omitted to explain that it was an inference. I took 
it for granted that you were ill, as you did not appear 
while I was here.” 

“ I was not aware of your presence, Mr. Costo,” was 
the quiet answer. 

It appears small matter enough, to the reader, for 
such an incident forever discovers more to the parties 
to it than can be conveyed in words. But by it this 


94 


BROKEN LIVES. 


visitor had been placed in the always awkward position 
of having gravely stated a falsehood ; and then when 
confronted with the fact, had made a bungling 
explanation. 

But there was one present who did not at all seem 
to appreciate the situation. Miss Parte continued to 
talk as if nothing had happened, addressing what she 
said for most part to the handsome stranger. But he 
was unable to recover himself, and soon took his leave. 

Miss Parte, turning to me, said with enthusiasm : 

“You will excuse me, Mr. Munro, for you do not 
affect to be charming or accomplished, in a social way; 
you have a greater and a loftier ambition ; but really, 
I think Mr. Costo the most charming and accomplished 
man I have ever met. Besides, he is wonderfully 
learned and widely traveled. Why, he knows more 
about this State than a born Hoosier. He can give you 
the most perfect account of rural Hoosier life ; can talk 
like them, and is as familiar with their dialect as your- 
self, and I believe you confess to speaking it, chiefly.” 

“ Perhaps he has lived in the State,” 1 suggested. 

“ Barely passed through it when a lad, he tells me,’’ 
she answered. 

“ Oh, well,” I said, “that would be quite enough to 
enable so gifted a lad as he no doubt was, to acquire a 
thorough knowledge of the habits and dialect of so 
simple a people.’’ 

This satisfied the honest Hortense, though the man- 
ner of my speech might well have aroused suspicion 
in a mind more sophisticated. 

“When is Mr. Costo to return to California?” I 
queried. 

“ Oh, not all, I think ; at least not soon,” Hortense 
answered. “ He says his affairs do not require his 
personal attention, as he has trusty agents and partners,” 
she added. 

“ Why, cousin, he seems to have been quite confi- 
dential with you,” quietly remarked Elsie. Hortense 
blushed slightly. 

“ He has no doubt come to the States in search of a 
wife,” I suggested. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


95 


“ He intimated as much,” said Hortense blushing, 
still. 

“ To you ?” I questioned. An affirmative nod was 
her answer. 

“ Why, he is frank and open as the day ! One 
would scarcely expect such candor on so short an 
acquaintance,” I said, with some irony of accent. 

“ Oh, you must understand,’ cried Hortense, a little 
nettled, “ that the suggestion was general, not personal.’’ 

“ Oh !” I ejaculated. “ He is tardy ! and he has not 
yet reached the personal stage ? Why, a gentleman of 
his complexion and nationality, should display more 
impetuosity one would think ; more ardor.” 

This was too much ; and when I came to reflect that 
Hortense was ignorant of all those facts known to Elsie 
and myself, and which served to color our opinions of 
the stranger, I regretted my words. 

The girl was thoroughly vexed. Her eyes flashed, 
and her olive skin grew darker. 

Changing my manner and speaking in tones of 
earnestness I said : 

“ Hortense, pardon my frivolous speech. I did not 
mean to vex you.” And after a moment, for I had made 
up my mind, I went on: 

“ Hortense, Miss Parte, I feel it my duty to warn 
you to beware of this stranger.” 

If I had been less abrupt, the effect no doubt would 
have been different. But all at once the danger to the 
lovely girl became, to my mind, appalling ; and I no 
more thought of the form of my speech than I should 
of the words with which to have warned her against a 
serpent, coiled and ready to strike. 

She bent upon me a look of mingled surprise and 
indignation. 

“ By what right, pray, sir do you assume to advise 
me ?” she asked, in a voice full of scorn. 

“ In right of my friendship for this family — for you 
—in gratitude to him, my friend, who is no longer here 
to advise you. He loved you — would have died for 
your happiness ! This is my warrant.’’ 

Then seeing the look of scorn deepen in her face, 


9 6 BROKEN LIVES. 

and my alarm for her safety becoming greater, I cried : 

“ If all this will not suffice, then, by the same right 
in which I would rescue you from drowning, or a burn- 
ing building, or the toils of a serpent, I warn you to 
beware of this stranger !” 

In my impetuosity, I had arisen and walked to where 
she sat. She lifted her hand as if to wave me back ; but 
having ended I stood looking earnestly down into her 
face. But in it were no signs of relenting. It had 
grown colder and harder. She arose, and with an irony 
— a contempt in look and voice, wholly indescribable, 
said : 

“ I shall, if any proposals of a serious character are 
submitted to me, by this stranger, have the honor to 
refer him to my guardian , Felix Munro, Esq.!" And she 
moved toward the door. But I was too much in earnest 
to be balked so ; I barred the way. 

“ Oh, Miss Part6, you have said this in irony, in con- 
tempt of my advice ; but promise me, seriously promise 
me that you will send him to me! Tell him that I am 
your friend, that I was the friend of your dead uncle, 
that you have no other adviser ; tell him to come to me. 
I will deal justly, fairly, honestly, as if you were my 
own sister, by him, by you ! I will not forbid his ad- 
dresses — his suit-; and if he shall return to you and }^ou 
love him, and have faith in him, be his wife, then. But 
send him to me first, if you hope for happiness in this 
world !” 

As I said this, Elsie had arisen and was standing 
with a hand on Hortense’s arm, as if to stay her flight. 

The aspect of Hortense’s face had changed, but its 
expression now was even more painful than the other. 
She glanced from Elsie to me, as if endeavoring, but 
unable, to speak. 

“ Fools!” she cried. “ Fools, must I tell you? Do 
you wish to know the truth? You shall, though it hu- 
miliate me to tell it you !” And she turned and walked 
to the seat she had quitted. She was fairly panting for 
breath, so great were her emotions. The face of Elsie 
was as unmoved as before, but as pale as death. 

“ You warn me" began Hortense. “You tell me to 


BROKEN LIVES. 


97 


beware of this stranger. You force me to tell you that 
he cares nothing for me! You drive me to tell you, 
Felix Munro, that it is your own affianced bride — your 
Elsie , he loves, madly loves, and means to win from 
you !” 

I knew it was better not to proceed now, though 
I meant to learn more. I took Elsie’s hands in mine. 
They were deathly cold. For myself, while I was sur- 
prised at the words and manner of Hortense, I was not 
at the intelligence they conveyed. That Otto Castelar 
loved Elsie Cradock I knew ; that he had come hither 
to win and carry her away I had not doubted ; and 
finally, that the beautiful Hortense had been captivated 
by the grace and fine manners of the stranger, I had 
suspected. As I sat looking upon the bowed form of 
this dark beauty, now weeping quietly, there arose in 
my heart a feeling of compassion. And as if it had 
been suggested by this silent sentiment, the vexed girl 
exclaimed bitterly, but as if to herself : “ Love me ! 

The idea that any one should love me. Everybody is 
ready with his compliments to ‘ the dark beauty,’ but 
who has loved me ?” And the beautiful form was shaken 
by emotion. I looked at Elsie, and the tears were in 
her eyes. She glided to the side of her cousin and en- 
folded her in her arms, /would gladly have consoled 
the weeping girl, but was unskilled in such tasks. 

The action of her cousin had touched, as sympathy 
ever does, the heart of Hortense. She slowly en- 
twined her arms about the form of Elsie, and the two 
sat embracing each other as loving sisters might. 

“ Why, Elsie,” again began Hortense, “ he talks of 
nothing but you. Sometimes he speaks of }^ou as 4 Miss 
Cradock,’ but oftener he calls you simply, ‘Elsie,’ as if 
he had known you all his life. He called you so that 
night at the party. And he speaks of Mr. Munro as 
‘Felix.’ Perhaps that is not so remarkable, as every 
one calls him that ; but the idea that he should call you 
‘Elsie,’ is extraordinary — impertinent. As for me, he 
never thinks of calling me ‘ Hortense.’ It is always 
‘ Miss Parte.’ What does it mean ? And he asked me 
to tell him all about your past. I did ; told him how 
7 


BROKEN LIVES. 


you and Felix were children together, and how you had 
always been lovers — how, when a child, you were called 
‘ Felix’s sweetheart and there came into his eyes the 
strangest look, and he sighed deeply, just as if I were 
not there witnessing it. And that look in his eyes — 
why, it almost frightened me. And yet he is so hand- 
some. What a wonderful face ! What splendid eyes, 
too, when they do not wear that look. And this expres- 
sion comes into them when he looks at you and Felix. 
I saw it this evening.” 

Hortense paused, and there was a long space of 
silence, during which none of us moved. At length 
she began again, as if there had been no pause : 

“ Why, he asked me if it had not been arranged that 
you and Felix were to have been married soon, if uncle 
had not died. I told him that I had not heard of such 
arrangement. He said he had, but supposed it was an 
idle rumor, since I had not heard of it. And then he 
wanted to know when you are to be married, suggest- 
ing that in view of uncle’s death, you could not be for 
some months.” 

“ Are there any other facts leading to the opinion 
you have expressed?” I asked, anxious to learn fully of 
Costo’s behavior. After a thoughtful silence, Hortense 
answered : 

“ I see that I have failed to convey any idea of his 
manner, which, now I come to think of it, is more sig- 
nificant than his words.” 

I understood her and assured her that what she had 
said, entirely sustained her opinion. “ But,” I added, 
“ none the less earnestly do 1 entreat you to beware of 
this man. He is the enemy of every pure woman in 
the world.” And some men are. 

“You speak strongly, Mr. Munro,” said Hortense. 

“ Yes,” I answered, “ and honestly and for our sweet 
cousin’s sake.” She looked at me with her soft, dark 
eyes full of gratitude. 

When taking leave, I said to Elsie : 

“ The trial of your courage is just begun, and the 
worst is that I can do little to help you. This villain 
means to press matters, and up to a certain point, which 


BROKEN LIVES. 


99 


I trust will never be reached, I must stand aloof. He 
shall not persecute you. I would not alarm your fears, 
but he is a desperado, I doubt not, a bravo . He knows 
we are affianced. He saw, no doubt, our hands joined 
by your uncle and heard his prayer for a blessing- on 
our union. And still he proposes to press his suit.” 

“ Yes, Felix,” answered Elsie bravely, “ and he knows 
that you saw him eaves-dropping. He means to defy 
you. He has lived long among men of violence, and 1 
have little doubt that his purpose is to seek a quarrel 
with you. I would not have you do anything not manly 
and brave, but trust you will avoid any trouble with 
him, since he will have you at a disadvantage, having 
no stake here, no reputation to maintain.” 

Her voice and manner as she spoke of this grave, 
possible exigency, surprised me. What she said had 
already occurred to me, and strong man as I was, con- 
scious of possessing a disposition naturally fearless, I 
could but feel a degree of trepidation at the possibility 
that I might be driven to a personal collision with Costo. 
And notwithstanding the stringent laws then, as now, 
existing against the duel, every man was expected to 
resent promptly a proffered insult, and was inevitably 
disgraced, if not professing as a religious tenet, the doc- 
trine of non-resistance, he tamely submitted. This Elsie 
knew, for her uncle, one of the kindliest of men, was 
yet a believer in the old methods, and had, in his 
younger days, so it was said, resorted to them to settle 
difficulties. I was very proud of my darling, now that 
she bravely confronted what I had feared would, if it 
arose, terrify her, and so greatly embarrass me. I 
thanked her again and again, assuring her that nothing 
short of the direst necessity should move me to lay this 
further burden upon her loving heart. 

Naturally impressible, my spirits rose and fell with 
the varying moods of Elsie. I had been as much cast 
down as herself, when she had spoken so despairingly 
of her dreams and the foreboding they had inspired. 
But as I walked homeward now, there was a glad song 
in my heart. 


100 


BROKEN LIVES. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

COL. TOWNSHEND GIVES SOME GOOD COUNSEL. COSTO’S 
WOOING. FELIX AS EAVESDROPPER. 

My partner was “a Virginian of the old school;” 
a believer therefore, in many things now happily obso- 
lete, but which in the day of 'their prevalence served 
high purposes, and conduced as nothing else could 
then have, to social order and decorous deportment. I 
felt myself nearing a point at which I should stand in 
need of his experience and wisdom. I hastened, there- 
fore, to lay before him what the reader knows. He 
heard me through, thoughtfully, meantime walking the 
floor. 

“ Is there any question in your mind as to the identity 
of this man?” he asked, turning upon me with an anx- 
ious expression of countenance. I assured him there 
was none, detailing the interview with Cooney, showing 
that he had recognized the stranger. 

“ That settles it!” he exclaimed. “ I might doubt 
your sweetheart and yourself, Felix, but no lawyer 
would for a moment doubt the evidence of this simple- 
ton. The stranger, Costo, is no doubt your Otto 
Castelar, and none other.” 

“ Well ?” I queried. 

“Then,” proceeded the Colonel, all aglow with interest, 
“there are three hypotheses, as the lawyers say ; first, the 
coming of the fellow here is, so far as related to matters 
affecting you and yours, accidental — chanced; or second, 
he has come with designs toward Miss Cradock, as it 
appears he knew that she had been brought here, but 
without thought of your presence ; or, third, he is here 
with full knowledge of the situation, knowing of your 
presence, and with the purpose to defy you, as your 
wise little girl has said.” 

“ Have you seen Mr. Costo?” I asked. 

“ Oh, yes, he has been here with Mr. Mansard, for 
whom, as you know, I have a business affair in hand. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


IOI 


A very bright man he is, too. He says he has been a 
regular student of the law, and talks intelligently on the 
general subject. His manners are perfect, and but lor 
something ; I know not what it is, 1 have seen it in a few 
other faces in my time; but for this indescribable some- 
thing — is it in the eyes? — he would be the most su- 
perbly handsome man I have ever seen,” was the 
elaborate answer. 

“ What is your advice, remembering that next to the 
protection of Miss Cradock from annoyance, and the 
preservation of my self respect, I most desire to avoid 
collision with this stranger?” I questioned. 

The brave old lawyer looked grave and thoughtful, 
rubbing his brow and looking at the floor, as his manner 
was, when in perplexity. 

“ Let him be the aggressor,” he said, “ and when the 
exigency arises, if you have doubts as to what you 
ought to do, come or send to me. Only be careful to 
place him, or what is better, let him place himself 
clearly in the wrong.” 

“ Why, Colonel,” I cried, “he has already done that. 
He eavesdropped a most solemn interview between 
Elsie and myself and her dying uncle. He knows I saw 
him, and yet he impudently thrusts himself upon me, 
and intrudes himself into the very household whose 
inmates he offended by the vile act.” 

I had grown warm as I proceeded, and the Colonel 
interrupted : 

“ But you can take no notice of that now ; it is too 
late.” 

“ I can drive him from the house !” I answered. 

“ It is not your house,” he replied. 

“ 1 can lay the matter before Mrs. Downs, and take 
her commission to do it,” I argued. 

“ Ah, there it is ; you will so put yourself in the 
position of picking a quarrel with your rival" urged 
my adviser. 

“ Great God !” I cried. “ My rival ; my rival! and 
for the love of an angel! The very thought sickens 
me ! It would surely drive Elsie mad, if she heard you 
say this D 


102 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“ Well, well,” answered the Colonel, coolly, not 
seeming to appreciate my outburst, “ that may be ; but 
Miss Elsie and her hot headed lover will both be older, 
by and by.” 

And then presently, continuing : 

“ Suppose you sit down now, and look at this matter 
sensibly, if you can. Come, you are not at all like your- 
self, young man. Remember, a young fellow in love 
with a pretty girl — an angel — is no Daniel come to 
judgment ; no Solomon in wisdom when at his coolest; 
and the voice of all history proclaims him no better 
than a madman when he suffers himself to get excited 
and lose his head. And somehow, love is like strong 
wine; when a fellow imbibes a goodly quantity of 
either, he is easily thrown off balance. Now, you go 
out in your present frame, and in less than twenty-four 
hours, you’ll be fighting a duel. Remember,” he went 
on, “ this stranger, according to your story, has loved 
Miss Cradock as long as you have. And may not a 
man avow his love to the object o f ** A 1 



his suit? True, Miss Cradock 


venture to think wisely, though 1 am not so sure of that 
as I should have been yesterday) yielded her heart and 
hand and happiness into your keeping. But this 
stranger was not a party to the arrangement, and very 
naturally supposing he knows of it, does not feel bound 
by it. Now you have driven me to say all of this ; for 
I must bring you to your senses. 

“ But seriously,” he still went on, “ the thing I fear 
is, that he will not behave in good faith in the matter, 
but will, when he fails, seek a quarrel with you. Now, 
sir,” he concluded, “do you appreciate the situation ?” 

“ I think I do,” I answered, a little crestfallen. But 
I thanked him for setting the matter forth in this, to 
me, new light. 

I endeavored to pursue my studies and to prosecute 
my work, but found my mind too full of other thoughts, 
so gave up the effort. 

What was I to do for the rest of the afternoon, if I 
did not go to Elsie? She met me with an anxious look 
in her face. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


103 


“ Did you meet my messenger?” she asked, eagerly. 

“Your messenger, Elsie? Did he bear a message 
for me ?” I answered, quite as eagerly. 

“ Yes, look at this,” she said, handing me a package, 
with the seal broken. And as she did so, I observed 
that her hand trembled. 

I could scarcely summon courage to look at the con- 
tents, but stood gazing at the superscription. I think I 
should have known it at once tor the handwriting of 
Costo. It looked like himself — large and somber and 
vigorous ! Looking from this to the face of Elsie, I 
saw she was watching me warily. She was impatient 
at my reluctance. 

“ Please read it, Felix,” she entreated. 

I sat down, snatched the note from the envelope, 
opened it and read, and as I did so, I grew dizzy, so tu- 
multuous were the movements of my blood. And this 
is what I read : 

“ Miss Cradock: — You cannot, I am sure, be ignorant of the fact, 
though I greatly fear that you are indifferent to it, that my several visits at 
the house of your aunt, have had no other object than to see you. Still you 
have ungraciously absented yourself on each occasion. By your permission, 
I shall call this evening at 8 o'clock. You will not, surely you cannot re- 
fuse me the opportunity to see you. It is a little thing to grant, but of 
infinite moment to him who asks the boon. Costo. 

“January 28.” 

I looked at Elsie. Her eyes were plainly crying: 
“ O what shall I do?” 

“ See him,” I answered. “ The ordeal is inevitable ; 
why not meet it now ?” 

“ O Felix,” she cried, “if I had but the courage of 
yesterday ! But alas! I am quite unnerved — a coward 
now.” 

“Ah, poor child,” I said, caressing her, “you have 
had disturbing dreams again.” 

“ Yes, O yes !” she whispered. 

“ Dismiss all thought of them, Elsie. You have 
suffered your mind to dwell so much upon these hate- 
ful visions, that you are grown morbid and fearful. 
Dismiss them, pray. Be as on yesterday, my own brave 
heroic darling, v I entreated. 

“ Will you remain, Felix?” she whispered. 


104 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“Yes,” I answered, “ but not to be present; that 
would simply postpone the ordeal, and protract your 
agony. Let us be done with it. He is a heathen to 
press this interview now, so soon after the death of your 
dear uncle; but being a heathen he will be satisfied 
with nothing short of an interview.” 

“ You will remain in the adjoining parlor, Felix. I 
will close the folding doors,” she pleaded. 

“ What, and play the eavesdropper, like him, Elsie ; 
would you have me do that?” I said. 

“ You would not be an eavesdropper, but a senti- 
nel ; my protector, remaining at my invitation. You 
must not refuse.” 

She said this with more spirit. “ I shall obey you,” 
I answered, “ but I must not hear what may be said. 
I cannot consent to listen.” 

“To every word! Not one syllable must escape you ! 
You must sit where the lightest utterance will be 
audible !” she commanded with flashing eyes, and lips 
compressed. 

“ You must,” she went on, “ be armed and ready to 
come to me ; for I shall be no more secure than if in- 
stead of a man, he were a wild beast! Otto Castelar 
is a savage !” As she spoke his name, she shuddered, 
and the hand I held clutched mine. 

“ I will obey you, Elsie, darling. One lightest tap 
of your finger on the closed door, shall be sufficient 
summons.” 

“Very well; you had better murder me outright 
than leave me at the mercy of this dragon of every 
evil passion.” 

At this moment Hortense, looking more beautiful 
than ever, came in. 

“ What are my ‘chillers’ as Cooney calls you, talk- 
ing about, and so gravely, too?” she questioned. I still 
held Costo’s note. I looked at Elsie. “Yes, let Hor- 
tense see it,” she answered. I handed it to her and 
watched her while she read. Her face grew darker, her 
eyes glistened as dark eyes will, when there is strong 
emotion beneath them, as she said: 

“ He’s a fool ! Pardon me, Mr. Munro — he’s a fool; 


BROKEN LIVES. 10$ 

a Samson with eyes plucked out, and the Philistines 
that did it, are his own evil passions.” 

“ Sit down !” I cried ; “ sit beside me here, beautiful 
prophetess, and seeing you were so wise yesterday, tell 
us of the night, of the morrow, of the days that are to 
come. Here, Elsie, sit on this side. Let us hear what 
our sweet cousin, the sybil, has to say to her ‘ chillers.’ ” 

I took a hand of each. “ Seriously, Hortense, tell 
us what to do!” I said earnestly. 

“ There’s but one thing to be done. Let Elsie meet 
this man and end matters,” she answered ; then after a 
pause, continued : 

“ Is Felix to remain with us, Elsie?” On learning 
that it had been so agreed, she went on: “ It is well to 
have it so ; Mr. Costo has a strangely contradictory 
character. Gentle and polite of speech and manner, 
yet I forever feel when in his presence that I should 
not be in the least surprised to see him suddenly stran- 
gle any chance passer-by. But what does all this mean ? 
Are you quite sure you have never met him, nor seen, 
nor been seen of him, before?” 

Fortunately Hortense did not wait for an answer 
to this pointed question, but went on : “ Why, he speaks 
of you two as if he had known you all his life. O Elsie,” 
she said, laughingly, “ his love for you is something 
awful!” I saw my darling shudder again, but she 
asked eagerly: 

“ Suppose I see him and kindly decline his attentions ; 
tell him of — tell him the truth ; will he not desist?” 

The idea that my affianced bride, whom I had sworn 
to protect, cherish and defend, felt compelled to con- 
sider gravely, whether she was to be safe from the 
importunity or worse, of a man professing to love 
her, maddened me. 

“ He must desist; he shall desist — confound him!” 
I cried. “ If, after he has proffered his suit, and has 
your answer, he annoys or importunes you further I 
shall take matters in hand !” 

“ And get shot for your pains !” suggested Hortense. 

“ Ah, is that among the visions of the sybil?” I ques- 
tioned, half jesting, half earnest. 


io6 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“ It needs no seeress to foretell that. One has only 
to see that scarred, and at times, savage visage, to know 
that your slightest interference will be met so,” she 
answered. 

I felt that what she said was true. I remembered 
too, that in all our boyish rencounters, he had gotten 
the better of me. Not that he had prevailed over me, 
in any decisive way, but somehow, it had always ended 
in my feeling that he had me at a disadvantage — as on 
the occasion when he challenged me to discharge his 
gun. 

After a long silence, during which my mind had 
dwelt on these events, I said, and I suppose my manner 
and voice were changed ; for both looked quickly at 
me : “ Whatever the issue, my duty is single, plain and 
unavoidable, and trusting in my mother’s God, I shall 
endeavor to meet it as shall become my father’s son.” 

“Why, Felix, did you think we doubted you?” 
asked Hortense. 

“ No, no,” I cried, “I was considering whether to 
doubt myself.’’ 

At half-past seven, I had taken my place in the par- 
lor, divided by folding doors from the apartment in 
which Elsie was to receive her visitor. And I was 
armed. While maintaining, I think, a fairly calm exte- 
rior, my blood surged and poured like a furious torrent 
through all my veins and arteries. I could hear my 
heart beat, and at the moment was conscious of being 
an abject, helpless coward, and could no more have 
stood against the coming visitor, than I could have 
breasted the highest wave in a mid-ocean storm. For 
some minutes — I shame to write it — I seriously thought 
of stealing away. Was this caused by the thought, 
which I could not dismiss, that I was doing an unmanly 
thing, in preparing to hear, by stealth, a lover prefer 
his suit? I hope so. If not, then it is certain — and I 
have never ceased to remember it — that I am capable, 
in certain moods and exigencies, of becoming an abject 
coward. Are all men? I hope not. 

The clock in the distant steeple is telling the hour 
of eight. At the fourth stroke — for I am counting — 


BROKEN LIVES. 


107 


the door bell rings in response to one vigorous, almost 
angry jerk. And did one tiny door bell ever before 
make such din? It seemed to beat against walls, to 
leap up stairways in angry bounds, invade nooks and 
alcoves and upper chambers, and then to come rolling 
back from the high ceilings, to hold a carnival in the 
lower halls ; and at last, after an age of riot, it sang the 
plaintive, reverberating song of death, which all me- 
tallic sounds at last sing, but none ever like this, before. 
The door is opened, and tho~short, quick step of the ser- 
vant is presently heard approaching, and behind this, a 
step, stately and measured ; for Elsie had directed that 
the visitor be led directly to the parlor, now brilliantly 
lighted, and in the midst the cousins, Elsie and Hortense. 

Suddenly I discover that by placing my eye opposite 
the point where the folding doors meet, I can see a 
large area of the room ; for in closing them, either pur- 
posely or by chance, they had not been brought quite 
together. 1 am bending my gaze thither, when the 
tall, almost majestic form of Costo moves into the room. 
He bows gracefully to the young ladies, standing side by 
side, and then with a bearing that even in my frame, I 
can but admire, he approaches the two figures with 
extended hand. They receive him politely, and Elsie 
shows him to a chair, and herself sits down. 

“Thank Heaven!” I cry in my heart, for she sits 
directly in the line of my vision with face toward me. 
Hortense excusing herself, quits the room. 

At sight of the face of the visitor, all sense of trepi- 
dation, of fear, departs from me. The commotion of 
my blood subsides and in another minute I am as cool 
and self-possessed as the most indifferent chance spec- 
tator could have been. 

The departure of Hortense is followed by what 
appears an embarrassed silence. Then the visitor turns 
gracefully about and looking into the sweet, grave face 
of the waiting girl says, in a voice so soft and gentle 
and withal, with such music in it, as made one feel that 
it had been attuned for wooing : 

“ I thank you, Miss Cradock, for your gracious con- 
duct in granting this interview. I feared that it was 
too much to hope for.” 


io8 


BROKEN LIVES. 


He paused ; Elsie had lifted her face toward his and 
sat with a strangely courageous, but gentle, light in 
her eyes. She appeared to neither invite nor forbid 
further speech. She simply waited silently. 

“ I have never hoped,” he began again, “ to deceive 
you. I never, for a moment, suspected that you did 
not, at once, see in me the fatherless, nameless, Otto 
Castelar .” 

There was a strange pathos in the accents of his 
voice now, and I could see that it touched the sensi- 
bilities of the silent figure opposite, as it did even my 
own. 

“ I think,’’ he continued, “ that Mr. Munro did not 
recognize me and does not yet quite believe that I am 
his old playfellow. Am I not right?” Elsie appeared 
to hesitate ; but answered, directly : 

“ Yes, in part you are right.” 

“ That is,” said the visitor, “ he did not, as you did, 
recognize me at once, but does now. And having 
recognized me, like all men, he thinks me a criminal, 
seeking disguise under a false name. The ladies — 
Heaven bless them — are more generous. They do not 
suspect a man on such slight grounds.’’ 

He said this in a lighter voice. Elsie answered : 

“ If Felix — pardon me— if Mr. Munro has any suspi- 
cions of the character mentioned, he has not spoken of 
them. He is, as you may recall, too generous to sur- 
mise evil of any one.” 

After a moment’s pause, the visitor said in candid 
tones and as if he had been considering the matter : 

“Yes, as I remember, he was a generous lad.” 

“ He is no less, but even more so, now,” Elsie 
answered. 

“ I think,” proceeded the visitor, “ that he very much 
desired at first to be friends with me. But two things 
forbade such relations between us. Shall I tell you 
what those barriers were?” 

Elsie hesitated ; I saw a look of perplexity in her face. 
It required some patience to brook this persistence ; but 
she answered, not unkindly, but firmly : 

“ I cannot decline to hear, if you wish to speak of 
them, since they concern Mr. Munro.” 


BROKEN LIVES. I09 

He moved impatiently, but when he spoke, it was 
again, in those wonderful accents : 

“ I saw that the moment he looked into my face, when 
with his father he came to carry me into your neigh- 
borhood, he discovered, under my dark skin, what my 
mother and a picture she always carried, had told me 
long before, that I was the image of that wicked man, 
who, giving me every lineament of his face, withheld 
all else, even his name. Even, nature conspired against 
me before I was born, and to rebuke the wicked, marked 
the innocent. Ah, when I realized that this stranger 
lad had discovered the secret — though he knew little of 
its import then — which had gnawed at my heart from 
memory’s dawn, I felt as if I should fall upon and 
strangle him. I verily believe that nothing but his 
father’s presence saved him from my chagrin and 
anger.” 

As he proceeded, his voice sank lower and at last 
melted into tears. I fancied I could see his great frame 
shaken by his emotions; and now, as Elsie looked pity- 
ingly upon him, the tears glistened in her eyes. The 
silence was protracted and painful. Having dried his 
eyes, he turned and looked toward the fire brightly 
burning in the grate, and this brought his profile 
within my view, and there was, as imperfectly seen, an 
expression, which if not simulated, was one to stir pity 
in the most unfeeling heart. After sitting for some 
time so, his head bowed, he lifted his face toward the 
patient, waiting figure, and went on : 

“ And then I was sent to school ; and one day Elsie 
(oh, pardon me, Miss Cradock, I have carried that dear 
name in my heart all the years, and could speak it only 
to myself), one day there came into that dark and for- 
bidding room, a face — a wee, bright face, as beautiful 
as if just fallen from the skies, and it entered my poor 
hungry heart, and suddenly the world was radiant. 
Since that day I have wandered to the ends of the 
earth ; have delved in dark mines ; have suffered ship- 
wreck, been left for dead in two massacres, but always 
in my heart, I have borne the image of that sweet face. 
But, alas! on that first morning, I saw that Felix 


iio 


BROKEN LIVES. 


Munro, the same lad who at a glance had detected the 
evidence of my spurious origin, already loved this 
bright-faced girl, and that she returned that love. Yes, 
children as both were, and I was but a child myself, it 
was plain that the little heart of each had been sur- 
rendered to the other, and was held by that other 
dearer than life. Oh, I did hate your Felix! Unmanly, 
causeless as was that hatred, I did hate him ! I saw 
you in the forest together, lost, lost under circum- 
stances and surroundings well calculated to terrify 
children of your years. But there you lay on a bed of 
grasses, perfectly happy ; you with your head on his 
bosom, like a sleeping fairy resting on the bosom of a 
demi-god. If it had not been such a cowardly thing, I 
think I should have slain him then. But my heart 
revolted at a deed so dastardly. I saw you again in 
the woodland, near your home, on the eve of your 
departure to this city. I had no temptation to do then 
what Felix suspected. I was there simply in the hope 
that I might once more see your sweet face, before we 
went our distant ways. I rejoiced at your departure. 
It filled my heart with a great hope, the hope that 
absence would bring forgetfulness of your boy lover.” 

“ Pray, Mr. Costo,” cried Elsie, interrupting, “ spare 
me ! Say no more ! Please, say no more ! It can but 
pain you, as it pains me, to hear it. I ought not, I must 
not hear you further. Let me entreat you to say no 
more. It is vain. Not only has he my heart, but long 
ago I plighted Felix Munro my troth, as well you know.” 
And she had risen and was looking with earnest entreaty 
into the face of the stranger. But he interrupted with 
more vehemence than ever: 

“ You shall hear me through, Miss Cradock ! The 
vilest criminal is not interrupted in his plea for life. 
No judge is so cruel as to bid him pause. Please be 
seated, and hear me ; in pity hear me.” 

Elsie sank back into the chair she had quitted and 
with an expression of pained resignation, waited. 

“ Patience and pardon,” he resumed in those won- 
derful tones. “ I am weak, helpless, as a giant in gyves,” 
and he smote his forehead. But at length he went on : 


BROKEN LIVES. 


Ill 


“ I said to myself, ‘ She will go to the gay city and will 
forget her boy lover, while I will go, achieve a fortune, 
and then in after years, will come, and laying it at her 
feet, will tell her of my love, a love that will have sus- 
tained me through all my struggles ; and she will, aye, 
she must, learning all that I shall have done and suf- 
fered and hoped, accept the offering.’ So inspired, I set 
forth. I threw away the hated name I bore. Choosing 
another, I said, ‘ I will make this name honored and 
feared.’ I succeeded as you have learned from others, 
from one whose guest I am. On all the Pacific coast 
no name is more widely known, none more respected 
by the honest, or feared by knaves, than the name of 
‘ Costo, the Fearless,’ as the rude people there have 
named me. And now, I come, sweet vision of a thou- 
sand dreams, star of all my hopes, and lay this princely 
fortune and this surging sea of love at thy feet. Thou 
wilt not, thou mayest not, reject this honest, faithful 
offering ! Surely, surely 1 have not hoped and dreamed 
in vain !” 

As he uttered these passionate words, kneeling, he 
had seized the hand of the terrified girl. And seeing 
now the look of mingled terror and pity in her face, 
he cried bitterly : 

“ O murderess, you spurn my love ! Aye, you do 
more, and what your fickle sex is not famed for doing, 
you spurn a fortune won for you through an agony of 
years, a fortune fit to endow a princess ; curse you ! 
You have heard my story, and yet in your face has 
arisen no look but pity. Accursed be your pity ! I 
could bear your contempt — your hate, even, with some 
patience; your pity maddens me !” 

By an almost superhuman exertion, the now thor- 
oughly terrified girl had wrenched her hand from the 
grasp of the kneeling giant. He arose and barred her 
way to the door. I caught a glimpse of his face. Its 
aspect was awful. He confronted the shrinking figure 
and in a voice that froze my blood, said, in measured 
accents : 

“ 1 saw the dying join your hand with that of Felix 
Munro, and heard the prayer for your happiness. But 


m 


BROKEN LIVES. 


it shall not prevail ! I summon here, now, every dev- 
ilish fiend and fury of discord ; invoke every curse that 
has severed plighted vows, ever from the beginning of 
time to this hour, to blight this love and prevent this 
hateful union. Vain fools that you are! If all these 
fail me, I shall find a way of my own !” 

As he began this tirade, I sought my way in the 
darkness to the nearest door, leading into the corridor. 
Through this I passed. I could have opened the fold- 
ing doors and appeared on the scene at once, but this 
would have placed me at a disadvantage, and I meant 
he should be at my mercy. 

As he finished the cruel words and turned to quit 
the room, I confronted him. I stood in the door, ready 
to anticipate the slightest menacing movement of the 
towering fiend. He paused, looking immovably at me. 

“ You have forgotten yourself, Otto Castelar — Costo, 
bastard, braggart, coward !” I cried. “You lay at the feet 
of an angel your accursed brutal passions, and call 
them by the holy name of love ; and when that angel 
spurns your beastly, hateful offering, you turn, like the 
bully you are, and curse her! Down, you dog ! and on 
your knees beg her pardon, or I will send your craven 
soul to keep company with the fiends you have invoked.” 
And as I said this, looking him fiercely in the face, I 
held fairly against his breast, a cocked pistol. 

He brushed me aside, as if I had been an infant, and 
strode past me and toward the door. In my rage, I 
was in the act of discharging the pistol into his retreat- 
ing form, when a hand seized my arm, lowering the 
weapon, and the pleading voice of Elsie faltered : 

“ O Felix, do not kill the wretched man !” 

He passed out, and in another moment Elsie fell 
fainting into my arms. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


113 


BOOK III. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE APOLOGY. THE DEPARTURE OF COSTO. 

“ He will challenge you before night,” was the excla- 
mation of Colonel Townshend, as I concluded, the 
next morning, a recital of the incidents set forth in the 
last preceding pages. 

“ I shall not fight,” I answered. “ I shall not vio- 
late the law and become a felon, simply to escape the 
charge of cowardice. But,” and 1 spoke in such tone 
as caused my friend to halt in his walk up and down 
the office, “ but I shall send such answer as will com- 
pel him to attack me on sight, and then — ” 

The Colonel rubbed his nose as his wont was, when 
not sure of his footing, and resumed his walk. 

“ He will not challenge, me, however,” I added. 

“ What makes you think so?” asked my partner. 

“ He cannot afford to, and I fancy he knows it, ” I 
answered. 

“If he shall, the course you propose will certainly 
lead to bloodshed,” urged the Colonel, “ whereas if you 
take the usual course of holding your correspondence 
across the State line, the matter will no doubt issue as 
such correspondence usually does, in an accommoda- 
tion, to wit. And thus each will save his credit for 
courage with little risk of getting hurt.” 

There was evident irony in this speech, for my 
friend ended with a laugh, and an “ Eh, Felix ?” 

“I make no boast of courage,” I said, “ for one can 
never be quite sure of his courage. But a principal 
8 


BROKEN LIVES. 


114 

reason for declining to fight is the disgust I feel for the 
bluster, which in these late years attends this business. 
No, sir, I shall decline, but if Mr. Castelar — Costo — does 
not wish to fight — well — we shall see.” I ended so, for 
shame’s sake. The thought all at once made me shud- 
der ; the thought that 1 had contemplated a public 
quarrel, which must inevitably bring the name of Elsie 
into the gossip of idlers. 

But at the moment Mr. Mansard walked into the 
office, looking very grave. Colonel Townshend glanced 
at me significantly. Having received our visitor cor- 
dially, we sat for some minutes talking in an embar- 
rassed way, on general topics. While I was debating 
what I should do, now that I was confronted with the 
exigency respecting which I had just before had such 
decided opinions, the visitor arose and handed me a 
package, saying: 

“ Mr. Munro, I am bearer of certain messages from 
my friend and guest, Mr. Costo, who 1 regret to say, is 
quite ill this morning, but felt that he could not post- 
pone the sending of these communications.” 

The address was in the hand of Costo, but showed 
clearly that the nerves of the writer were shaken. I 
withdrew the sheet of note paper and read the contents 
eagerly. Surprise at once took the place of appre- 
hension. The note ran thus : 

“ Felix Munro, Esq. 

“ My Dear Sir : — I write this because unable to come to you in person. 
Were I in your presence now, I should do what every instinct of my 
heart demands ; go down on my knees and beg you to forgive the out- 
rage, nay, crime, committed against, not yourself only, but against one 
justly far dearer to your heart, than your own life. I can only hope that 
one who, as a student of human nature, understands its infirmities, may be 
able to pardon even the gravest offence, and such mine surely is. My friend 
who will hand you this is bearer, also, of a message addressed in your care, 
to a lady whose name I am unworthy to write. You will examine it and 
determine whether she shall be troubled with a communication from one who, 
bearing the similitude of a man, is yet capable of such behavior as charac- 
terized my conduct in her gentle presence. 

“ Since you have, no doubt, as was proper, laid an account of last night’s 
affair, before your partner, will you do me the justice to allow him to see 
this ? I know that I need not ask you not to add to my humiliation by giv- 
ing the matter further publicity, though I deserve to have it blazoned to the 
whole world. 

“I beg, in conclusion, to assure you, that if there were other words of which 


BROKEN LIVES. 115 

I were master, that would more strongly convey my sense of regret, shame 
and humiliation, I should hasten to invoke their aid. 

“ Suffer me, dear sir, from the valley of shame and remorse, to subscribe 
myself Your humiliated friend, 

Robert Costo. 

“ January 29 — 

When 1 had completed the perusal and had regained 
my breath, of which the missive had well-nigh deprived 
me, I asked, my partner meantime eyeing me anxiously: 

“ Are you aware of the contents of this note, Mr. 
Mansard ?” 

“ Certainly, my friend read it to me,” he answered. 

“ Then you are aware of the request, that if I had 
laid last night’s affair before my partner I should also 
show him this note?” 

And 1 handed the missive to the Colonel and watched 
him while he read. 

Having finished it, with every indication of surprise 
depicted in his countenance, he passed it back, with the 
interrogative exclamation: 

“Well?” 

“ Mr. Mansard,” I began, “ may I speak to you upon 
this subject, understanding what is said shall be deemed 
confidential? Or does your relation to the matter 
forbid ?” 

“ We may so talk, at least, until I warn you,” was the 
guarded answer. 

“ V ery well, I wish to ask your opinion as to the state 
of your friend’s mind. Is he at himself ?” 

“ Why, you startle me, Mr. Munro, your inquiry 
amazes me !” he replied sharply. 

“ Then, it had not occurred to you that your friend’s 
mind may be off its balance ?” I suggested. 

“ Certainly not !” he answered, with a look of vex- 
ation. 

“ Tell him then,” I went on, “ that his communication 
shall receive fitting answer this day ; but since in this 
mention is made of another, will you allow me to see 
that ?” 

“ Really,” began the visitor, in some confusion, 
“ really, I beg your pardon ; I thought I had handed it 
with the other.” 


ii6 


BROKEN LIVES. 


It was addressed to Elsie on the inside, and while 
much briefer than the other, was even more abject. 
Having read it, I informed the messenger that I would 
lay it before Miss Cradock, and he took his leave. 

“ Felix,’’ began my partner, “ I do not quite under- 
stand your behavior. This apology would seem to be 
entitled to somewhat more cordial treatment than you 
award it. It is certainly frank and ample, if apology 
ever was.” 

‘‘And yet, Colonel Townshend,” I said, “it disturbs 
me more than a challenge to mortal combat.” 

“ The devil !” he cried, “ what do you mean ?” 

“ Will you read this note again ?” I questioned, hand- 
ing it to him. “ Read it in the light of my suggestion.” 

He did read it, slowly and thoughtfully, and then 
for a long time sat rubbing his nose and stroking his 
brow. At length, as if summing up the matter, he said 
to himself, but loud enough for me to hear : 

“ The question for resolution and opinion on these 
facts, are first : Is Mr. Costo a person of sound mind ? 
And if yea, second : Is there anything sinister in this 
remarkable note — anything between the lines ? Pre- 
cisely, yes ; such are the reasonable queries, on the 
facts stated. 

“ Say, Felix,” he said, turning to me, “ this fellow 
may be beside himself, but I don’t believe it a safe 
assumption on the facts stated, and which l have just 
been running over in my mind. But whether he is 
crazy or sane, I agree with you in not liking the style 
and tone of this epistle. There is, what somebody calls 
a muchness about it, that alike challenges scrutiny and 
balks construction. Yet, there is but one thing for you, 
as a generous man and a gentleman, to do : respond to it 
as if there were no question of its bona fides and suffi- 
ciency.” 

“ Thank you, my friend,’’ I said, and forthwith I car- 
ried the matter to my Elsie and her wise cousin. 

Elsie was pale and nervous this morning, but had 
come down in expectation of my visit. 

Without intimating any opinion of the communi- 
cations, I watched the two while they read them. Elsie 


BROKEN LIVES. 


II 7 

looked at me doubtingly. Hortense shook her head. 

“ Mr. Costo is masquerading,” she said. “ He is too 
humble by half — he is dangerously so.” 

“ Have you told Hortense all that occurred last 
night?” I questioned. 

“ Not all ; I did not feel at liberty to tell all,” Elsie 
answered. 

“ And yet without knowing all, she has come to the 
same conclusion as yourself,” I said. 

“Yes, the same; these are intended for a snare. 
He means to cheat us,” she said in suppressed accents. 

“ What shall I answer?” This was addressed to 
both. 

“ Say to him, for me — no, no ; I must leave it all with 
you. Frame such answer as you think fitting,” Elsie 
answered falteringly. 

“ Whatever else you say, let him know that you are 
not quite certain of the good faith of these extraordi- 
nary documents. No honest, no brave man could write 
such words as these, in his note to you, Felix.” And 
then she added, laughing: “I know so much about brave 
men and honest men, and what they will or will not do ! 

0 I am sure I can’t advise you.” 

“You have though,” 1 said, “ and I thank you for it. 
Remain here,” I added, “ until I return. I wish to sub- 
mit what I may w~rite to your judgments.” 

Going to the library, I indited the following : 

Robert Costo, Esq., 

Sir : — Your messages by the hand of your friend have been considered. 

1 trust you have discovered nothing in the character of either Miss Cra- 
dock or myself, leading you to suspect that an offence against us, can, in our 
estimation, be condoned, only by the self-abasement of the offender. We 
esteem it sufficient if the wrong-doer, sincerely regretting the error, says so. 

We deplore the fact that you have deemed it necessary to employ lan- 
guage, which must be as humiliating to you as it is painful and distasteful to 
us. 

We accept your assurance of regret that you were betrayed into conduct 
requiring an apology. Respectfully, 

January 29. Felix Munro. 

As I finished the reading of this to the young ladies, 
Hortense shook her head again. Elsie looked disap- 
pointed. 


1 18 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“ It does not satisfy either of you,” I said. 

“ I confess it is not what I hoped to hear ; yet I can- 
not tell why,” said Elsie, gravely. 

“It lacks something ; heartiness?” suggested Hor- 
tense. 

“ I did not mean to be cordial ; but to let him 
see that to use words of self-abasement in apology, 
scarcely proves sincerity, and may excite distrust. I 
could wish that it better pleased you both, but it must 
suffice,” I said. And the answer was dispatched. 

* ***** * 

Within four weeks, and with the first boat that was 
able to make its way through the fragments of broken 
ice in the river, Costo had gone, declaring to his host 
his purpose to return to the Pacific coast. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“lost! lost!’’ “within the gates of death.” 

It is mid-April. The Winter lingering, had but re- 
cently taken his departure. But at last the sun, as if to 
make amends for his tardiness, is shining with unwonted 
warmth. And on this afternoon (it was the 14th of 
April as I shall forever remember) I had said to Elsie : 

“ Let us walk to the woodland and see if ‘ Moses 
and Annie’ are come.” 

The eyes of my darling sparkled with joy as she 
hastened to get ready. 

“ And wont Moses and Annie be surprised when 
they learn our great secret?” she cried, as we bent our 
glad steps southward. 

“We must bid them to the feast, after ; for, of course 
the little dears will not care to go to the great church 
among so many strangers,” I answered, as, lifting the 
ungloved hand I held in mine, I kissed it many times. 

“ Besides,” Elsie said, presently, and blushing a lit- 


BROKEN LIVES. 


19 


tie, “ May day is a busy season, always, with this prov- 
ident pair.” 

“ O darling, mine,” I cried, in exuberance of joy, 
“ we shall be a thousand times happier than these on 
that blessed day.” And taking her face between my 
hands, I kissed it, again and again, for there were none 
to witness. 

Ah, if our lives had been destined to glide on thus; 
if this day, and the happy days of this new year had 
been the prophecy of the days and years to come to us, 
these memoirs had never been written ; for my reader 
will agree with me that the events in the career hith- 
erto, of those concerned therein, are much too com- 
mon-place, standing alone, to have risen to historic dig- 
nity. But, alas! these events stand as oases on the bor- 
ders of a parched and ever-widening desert, the paths 
through which, led our feet over rugged stones, but 
through streams of living water, never. 

O, blessed days of that year, from thy high places 
we saw (Elsie and I), in our happy, but illusive day- 
dreams, paths leading into strangely beautiful fields, 
filled with all manner of trees, “which yield their fruits 
twelve times a year.” We saw, too, the glad faces and 
happy feet of children hastening along flower-begirt 
paths to meet us ; saw these, grown into glorious per- 
fection, bearing our names to the future, teeming gen- 
erations. 

On thy heights, O glorious springtime, we heard 
songs which no voice could utter, and with uplifted 
eyes saw, as in the mountain of God, other and greater 
heights ; and on these, multitudes no man could num- 
ber; and clasping hands, we cried, “We will by the 
paths^ through the fruitful valleys, together, walk 
thither.” 

“ For,” we said one to the other, “yon heights are 
reached through the beautiful vale.” For we were 
very happy and stood on the mountain of Hope where 
poets live, and sing their wonderful songs. But we 
knew not what we said. 

As I took leave of Elsie, in the twilight of this even- 
ing, she said, softly : 


120 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“ Remember Felix, darling, meet me at the river at 
precisely six o’clock.” 

“ Never fear, sweetheart,” I answered, “ do you need 
to bid twice a beggar to the feast ?” 

In the visions of that night the robins sang as they 
built their nests in the woodland, through which I 
walked with an angel, that forever struggled to leave 
me, and the flight of which I diligently sought to stay, 
but at last could not. 

A brief explanation which cannot be more irksome 
to my reader than to myself, is here necessary. 

Across the river opposite the city, lived a poor 
woman with an invalid daughter. This widow had for 
many years, been housekeeper at the Downs mansion, 
but growing old and infirm had, two or three years be- 
fore, been retired from service. Mr. Downs had builded 
a cottage for her and had provided for her out of his 
bounty. A small boat, and christened “ Elsie,” lay in 
the river at the foot of the broad street, for the use of 
those of the family who carried supplies to the inmates 
of the cottage. Since the death of the uncle, Elsie had 
taken this duty on herself. Three evenings each week 
she went to look after these helpless people. On sev- 
eral of these visits lately, I had accompanied her. The 
simple Cooney always went along to work the oars, 
and to carry the provisions from the boat to the cot- 
tage. It was to accompany her on such a visit, that I 
had agreed to meet her at six o’clock on the evening 
following that of our visit to the woodland. 

An unforeseen engagement prevented my keeping the 
appointment. For the first time in my experience the 
court wherein I was engaged, chanced to continue its 
session beyond the hour of six. Chanced? Ah, me! 
Who shall say ? 

At the appointed hour, Elsie, with her faithful 
servitor, was at the trysting place. This I learned from 
the dwellers along the river; and I further learned that 
she awaited me many minutes, but at length set forth 
in the little boat. 

So soon as the court adjourned, near j o’clock, I 
walked rapidly to the mansion ; fori was much annoyed 


BROKEN LIVES. 


121 


at my failure to keep my engagement, and was eager to 
make my excuse. Hortense told me that Elsie had 
started on time, but had not returned ; and though she 
endeavored to conceal the fact, 1 saw that on learning 
that I had not accompanied Elsie, she was alarmed 
For the hour at which she had started was later than 
her custom was to go, when she had only Cooney for 
company. A horse and buggy was brought, and in 
less than five minutes I was on my way to the river. 

When we came in sight of it, at the end of the wide 
street we saw Elsie’s carriage at its accustomed place. 
I knew not why, for as yet there was no serious ground 
of alarm, apparent, but suddenly my heart fainted 
within me. 

“ What means this awful premonition ?” I asked. 

But the driver answered not, for he knew that I 
questioned myself. 

When we reached the river, it was quite dusk. I 
strained my eyes in eager hopes that I might see the 
little boat with its precious freight ; but in vain. I sent 
the driver up the river to a point where lay skiffs and 
row-boats, to fetch one. It seemed an age before I at 
last saw him coming around the bend. So soon as the 
boat was near enough, I leaped into it. 

“ Pull to the western shore ! Pull for your life !” I 
cried to the boatman. But when we reached that side, 
no boat was visible. I flew to the cottage. Elsie and 
her companion had left there an hour ago. I flew back, 
crying : 

“ Lost ! Lost ! Lost !” 

We returned to the other side, and having directed 
the driver to go and give the alarm, we headed down 
stream. I besought the boatman to make all possible 
speed. He assured me he was doing his best. I seized 
the oars. The boatman yielded his place. My strength 
appeared superhuman. The trim little vessel fairly 
leaped along the water. 

As we went onward, I looked from side to side, in 
eager search. I hallooed ; I cursed ; I called on all the 
powers in Heaven, in the air, on the earth and beneath 
it, for aid ; but ever I bent to the oars. On and on the 


122 


BROKEN LIVES. 


boat flew. Where was I going? Oh, God, in search 
of certain evidence, certain proof, that my darling was 
lost ! for I sought an empty boat. I had" no hope that 
Elsie would be in it, if found. 

Vain search ! 

I know not how long I had been working the oars, 
when the boatman touched my shoulder. I looked up 
into his face. He was frightened ; but he said in kindly 
tones : 

“ Let me have the oars, please ; you are exhausted, 
Mr. Munro.” 

I yielded and he turned the boat about, and leaving 
the current, started back. I said not a word in protest. 
There began to steal over all my senses a numbness like 
congestion. I sat watching the gliding waters as a 
child might. The time seemed endless. Would we 
never come in sight of the lights of the city ? Thus, 
dreamily, my mind pondered. 

At length we saw a boat, bearing a light, and con- 
taining other vain searchers. The boatman hailed these • 
and they turned about. We met others, and they 
turned back. All were abandoning my helpless darling 
to her fate, but 1 said not a word ! 

When we reached the wharf, hundreds were assem- 
bled, but doing nothing. Lying near was a small vessel 
with steam up. This I chartered and sent in search of 
the lost boat — not of Elsie ; that I knew was vain. But 
her boat if found, might give some clue. 

It was near midnight when the little steamer started. 
All sorts of rumors were flying about as to when and 
where Elsie and her companion had been last seen. 
These I followed up; but all I learned, the reader 
already knows. 

When Elsie had arrived at the river at 6 o’clock, she 
waited, some said twenty minutes, some said longer. 
No one pretended to have seen her start on her return 
voyage. 

One other fact only, I learned : a small vessel that 
had some days before brought from the Ohio River a 
cargo, and which had been lying at an abandoned land- 
ing, down the river, had shortly after Elsie crossed 


BROKEN LIVES. 


123 


over, steamed up the river and, some said, presently 
returned to its moorings. It was suggested that the 
people of this boat might know something of Elsie’s 
movements. But m ’ 1 was benumbed, so I did not 



as at another time 


prosecute inquiry in that 


quarter. 

Hour after hour I walked the river’s brink, awaiting 
the return of the little steamer I had sent out. Prepa- 
rations were going forward to drag the river at the rise 
of morning. But I took no interest in this. Nor could 
I have told why. 

I remembered that in Elsie’s girlhood, and after her 
peril in the creek, she had been taught to swim (as 
every girl ought to be), but what could that avail her 
in this raging flood ? 

And now in the agony of despair, I began to call 
upon her name, as one bereft. I implored her by the 
memory of our love, wherever in the universe she 
might be, to come to me. If but for one moment, to 
come and vouchsafe one smile of her gentle face, to 
assure me that she had survived the flood. 

“ I will be patient, darling,” I cried, “ if I know that 
thou still livest, and that we shall meet again.” 

I had unconsciously said this aloud, while wringing 
my helpless hands. 

“ He is mad !” they said. “ He will do himself vio- 
lence,” suggested the gossips. “ He should be looked 
after by the authorities ; he will throw himself into the 
river,” said others, who no doubt would have enjoyed 
the added sensation. 

And then, I remember, there came about me, grave, 
pitying, tearful faces, and gentle voices expostulated 
and endeavored to reason with me. And beyond these 
I dimly remember other faces; curious, unpitying, 
tearless, with ogling eyes, filled with eager looks, such 
as are seen at the execution of a felon. 

And then my ears were invaded by mingled, indis- 
tinguishable sounds, which waxed louder and louder, 
ending at last in a roar, as if the heavens and the earth had 
met and chaos come again ! Balls of fire, which swelled 
until they burst as bubbles burst, filling all the spaces 


124 


BROKEN LIVES. 


with shooting stars and blazing brands, were before my 
eyes ; and then — 

****** 

When consciousness began to dawn again, I was in 
darkness. My first sensation was that of suffocation. 

“I have been buried alive !” I thought, my senses 
quickening at the reflection. 

1 endeavored to lift my hand to feel about me, but it 
failed to respond to my impotent will. I tried to draw 
my feet upward ; I could not move so much as a toe. 
I essayed to speak, but my vocal organs at this first 
trial, were as unresponsive as if they had not been my 
own. With a feeling of despair, I attempted to move 
my tongue, my lips. I succeeded. What a sense of 
triumph I felt ! 

Again I essayed speech, and as if by chance, I articu- 
lated the name, “ Elsie.” I had no purpose to do so. 
I had no purpose ; I do not remember that 1 had thought 
of her. 

Had I been possessed of sufficient sensibility and life, 
I should have shuddered at the sound of my voice ; of 
the voice rather — it was not mine. I had never heard 
this voice before. 

I experienced a mental surprise, that was all, as a 
well man might, who suddenly sees or hears a wholly 
unexpected thing, but a thing indifferent to him, save 
as it is unique. 

I tried again : 

“ Elsie !” 

The same voice responded. And now my mind 
took its first tottering step, verv leisurely : 

“ Who is Elsie?” 

But just then there glided to my bedside, in the 
darkness, a figure like a specter, for only the dim out- 
lines were visible. And then a voice, like something I 
had heard in ages past, and in another world, said, 
softly : 

“ Mr. Munro — Felix, did you speak?” 

But my mind was occupied again, with the thought 
that I could, at least, move my tongue, and again I 
made the effort : 


BROKEN LIVES. 


125 


“ Elsie !” answered the unearthly voice. 

And again, I began the same mental process as 
before : 

“ Who is Elsie ?” 

And I was saying mentally : 

“ Ah, I remember !” 

When the gentle voice, now nearer my face, said, 
pityingly, but I did not think of that then : 

“ Ah, no, no, Felix; not your Elsie ; Hortense.” 

“ Hortense !” echoed the voice. And again I asked, 
mentally : 

“ Who is Hortense?’’ 

But now the figure draws aside the curtains of a 
window, ever so little, but a ray of light struggles in, 
and the moment it touches my eyes, closes them as if, 
instead, it had been a lurid flash of lightning. The 
curtain is replaced, and before the figure can bend over 
me again, I have fallen into profound sleep, from sheer 
exhaustion. 

Many times, as afterward I learned, this struggle 
between consciousness and night, life and death, was 
repeated ; but at each struggle consciousness and life 
won a little on night and death. And each time the strug- 
gle began by the strange voice uttering the one same 
word — the name “ Elsie,” and each time the same form 
glided to my bedside and bent over me, while the same 
g-entle voice answered my speech with eager ques- 
tioning. 

I had grown stronger when I awoke one day, with 
an infinite yearning in my heart, to see Elsie. It seemed 
to have grown in my soul while I slept, for it was the 
first thought or sensation on awaking. No recollec- 
tion of the awful past came with this longing, which 
was like a consuming hunger. I did not think of call- 
ing her, but, unconsciously I did : 

“ Elsie — darling!” 

Instantly the figure was at my side, bending over 
me, the face so near mine that I could feel its warm 
breath. The amount of light allowed in my room had 
been gradually increased until now I could see the face 
near my own in mere outline. I lifted my arms, for I 


126 


BROKEN LIVES. 


had gained strength to do so now, and encircled the 
neck of the bending figure, drawing the face down to 
my own, when the voice, low and eager, said: 

“ It is not Elsie, Felix dear, it is not your Elsie. It 
is Hortense.” 

Then kissing my brow gently, she drew back. 

“Where is she? Please tell me where my darling 
is,” I said so piteously, pleadingly, that Hortense 
answered with a sob. 

Then slowly my mind recalled the past. I remem- 
bered that Elsie had been lost — remembered it dimly, 
not poignantly, that would have killed me. The girl 
continued to weep as I looked into her face, awaiting 
an answer. But now I said : 

“ I remember !” 

“ Oh, do you remember, Felix ?” cried the low, eager 
voice. 

Then there was silence. But my mind was gather- 
ing the broken threads of memory. 

“ It has been a long night, Hortense ; is it morning 
now?” I at length said. 

“ It is evening now,” she answered. 

Then another silence. 

“What day of the month is this? My mind is so 
confused I cannot recall ?” I asked. 

“ This is the twenty-fifth,” she answered. 

“No, no, Hortense,” I answered, after some time, 
“that is not right, I remember now. Yesterday was 
the fifteenth, for I recollect saying to Elsie in the wood- 
land — ah, what was it I said to Elsie, in the wood- 
land ?” 

Hortense was silent so long that I grew impatient. 
And then began to gather in my mind a suspicion. 

“Why am I so weak?” I asked myself. 

I looked at the face of Hortense again. It was full 
of an anxious, frightened look. 

1 lifted my right hand and gazed at it. It was a 
skeleton hand ! At sight of this it fell back into its 
place, as if paralyzed, and 1 turned such a look upon 
Hortense as caused her to tremble. She arose, and 
glided from the room. 


BROKEN LIVES. 12 7 

My mind was now invaded by a strange feeling of 
awe. 

“ I have been within the gates of death !” I whis- 
pered. 

I raised my hand again slowly, and felt my face. It 
was fleshless! I passed it up to my head — it was shorn! 

Hortense glided again into the room, and again sat 
by my bed. But I became aware that she had been 
followed, on her return, by some one who remained, at 
a distance. 

Poor girl! She had become alarmed, and had gone 
to summon an attendant. 

I slept for a time and when I awoke again my mind 
was more acute. I did not call Elsie’s name now, but 
in a voice far more natural than at any former time, I 
called : 

“ Hortense !” 

It was night, but in a minute she had come from her 
room and was at my side. She administered some 
nourishment, what would have scarcely sufficed for the 
tenderest infant, then drawing her chair near, sat down. 

“ Where am I, Hortense?” I asked. 

“You are in — don’t you know? You are in our 
house — Aunt’s house.” 

I looked slowly about me. All was strange. 

“ Is this my room ?” I questioned. 

Hortense hesitated a moment, and then, in a voice 
choked with emotion, answered : 

“ It is her room ; we thought you would like it when 
you — got better.” 

“ YVhat day is this?” I asked presently again. 

Again she hesitated, seeing which, I said slowly : 

“Has it been long, Hortense? Tell me, please.” 

“Yes, Felix,” she answered. “You have been very 
ill a long time. This is the twenty-fifth of May.” And 
she looked at me as if expecting to see me greatly sur- 
prised. But I was not. 1 closed my eyes and lay so 
quiet, that she thought me asleep. I was thinking. 

“ Elsie would have been my wife now, many days,” 
I said at last. 

Suddenly there flitted through my mind the merest 


128 


BROKEN LIVES. 


figment of a recollection. I could make nothing of it, 
but it led me to ask : 

“ Have I been here all the time ?” 

“ All the time, from the day you fell ill.” 

She could not tell what I long after learned, that I 
had been in a madhouse for two weeks, and until brain 
fever had set in, when she, herself, first implored and at 
last commanded that I be removed to the home of my 
friends. And having prevailed, would hear to nothing 
only that I should be lodged in the rooms of my lost 
Elsie. 

Slowly my strength returned. Slowly with its re- 
turn, my mind gathered up the fragments and strands 
of memory, and knitted them patiently together. 

Well was it that all this must be done, little by little ; 
else I had died. Well it is, that one, coming back from 
the borderland ’twixt life and death, comes with sensi- 
bilities blunted, else I had surely died, or lost, again, 
my reason. 

It was not until after many days, that my mind laid 
firm hold of the fact that Elsie’s death was shrouded in 
mystery. I had a vague sense that she was lost, but my 
mind was not daring enough to go beyond this. At 
last I began to reflect : “ What has been learned of this 

dark and awful mystery ? Has the boat been found ? 
Has the body been recovered ?” 

I came to feel a shivering sense of terror at the bare 
thought of making any inquiry. An hundred times a 
day I would resolve to ask Hortense, but as often as I 
resolved, an indefinable sense of dread of what I might 
learn, kept me silent. That the worst awaited me, I was 
sure ; or why the ominous silence of every one ? Why 
do all avoid every topic which might lead to this one? 
And why the look and manner of Hortense, so full of 
gentleness toward and sorrow and pity for me, when I 
had spoken of Elsie? Ah, me ! 

One day I had slept long and awoke, greatly re- 
freshed. Hortense sat, holding my hand and looking 
sorrowfully into my face. Without waiting for the 
sense of dread to arise in my soul, I suddenly cried : 

“ O Hortense, sister, tell me ; have you no word of 


BROKEN LIVES. 


129 


comfort, nothing to give me just one little ray of 
hope?'’ 

She shook her head sadly. 

“ Have they not even so much as recovered the 
body ?” I asked, my heart dying within me. 

Again she shook her head as the tears ran down her 
face. 

“ Have they sought for it ? Have they tried to re- 
cover it ?” I persisted. 

“ By every known method, diligently, for weeks,” 
she said softly, as she stroked my face soothingly. 

I groaned in an agony of despair, but pursued the 
inquiry no further, though somehow, I felt that the pa- 
tient Hortense knew more than she had told. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

COONEY AND HIS STORY. THE DESPAIR OF FELIX. 

It was after many days, and 1 was able to sit up in 
an easy chair and look out on the flowers and at the 
distant forests, when Colonel Townshend came in. Not 
that this was his first visit, for no day passed without 
his calling to inquire after me. He was a straightfor- 
ward man. I had often envied him his ability to com- 
municate the most disagreeable intelligence without 
any air of discouragement ; a rare gift. He drew up a 
chair and took my still attenuated hand, saying : 

“ I have come to have a little talk with you this 
morning. Are you strong enough to listen, for you 
must not talk back — I will not allow that. I have nothing 
worse to tell you than you already know or surmise.” 

“ O sir,” I cried, “you cannot have. There is noth- 
ing worse possible! There is no horrible thing that 
could befall, that I have not dwelt upon, until I have 
sweat, as it were, great drops of blood. Go on !” 

“ There, you have made a longer speech than mine, 
already ; and you were not to talk at all,” he said sooth- 
ingly. 

9 


130 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“Go on, pray,” I repeated, beginning to feel an insup- 
portable longing to hear what he had to say. 

He went on rapidly, but without that mysterious 
air that makes bad news appear worse : 

“The little steamer you sent out that night, found 
the lost boat — Cooney’s boat, as I shall call it — eight 
miles below the city, in a bend in the river, near the 
island. A week later a rumor became current, that a 
silly fellow had wandered to a cabin in the bottoms, 
where he had told a wonderful story. I caused this 
rumor to be followed up, and it turned out as I had 
suspected, that the simple fellow was Cooney. I went 
myself and brought him home.” 

“ O,” I cried, interrupting, “ do not keep me in sus- 
pense ! It will kill me ! Is she alive ? For sweet 
pity’s sake, tell me, she is alive!” 

The eyes of the good man swam in tears, as he went 
on bravely : 

“ Felix, my son, you know I would not keep you in 
suspense. You know if such an assurance could be 
given, it would have been, long ago. You must have 
patience. Hear me through ; and then you and I, who 
have solved so many knotty problems, will work on 
this.” 

These words look simple enough to the reader, no 
doubt ; but at hearing them, everything grew misty be- 
fore my eyes ; even the form of my friend danced and 
quivered, and at last disappeared in darkness, as ten 
thousand bells jangled in my ears. 

When I revived, the blood had mounted to my face 
and my mind became strangely alert. 

“ Go on, I am better now ; go on quickly,” I said. 

“ It required many hours,” my friend continued, “ to 
get from the simpleton all the facts, so that I could put 
them together and make an intelligible whole, of them; 
for his powers of speech are well nigh gone, as are 
those of his mind. But the story, briefly told, is this: 

“ When they started to return across the river, they 
saw a small vessel which lay down at the old landing, 
steam up the river directly across their path, and then 
turn and drop down again, so that when Cooney, with 


BROKEN LIVES. 


131 

his boat, was about half across, the little steamer lay in 
their pathway. Then suddenly, three men were seen 
coming from the steamer in a skiff. When alongside, 
two of the-men jumped into Cooney’s boat, knocked 
him down, took his oars and ran the boat toward the 
steamer. Miss Cradock gave a frightened scream, when 
one of the ruffians seized her and bound over her mouth 
a handkerchief, telling her that she should not be harmed, 
but that it was useless to make resistance. 

“ By this time Cooney’s boat was lashed to the 
steamer, which was going at great speed down the 
river. Miss Cradock was soon removed onto the 
steamer, when one of the men, presenting a pistol at 
Cooney’s breast, commanded him to lie flat down and 
to keep quiet. This so frightened the poor fellow that 
he lay quietly on his back, fearing to move hand or 
foot. The man had carried Cooney’s oars on to the 
steamer, but before doing so had inspected the chain by 
which the little boat was fastened to the steamer. This 
chain, as you will recall, was fastened to the prow by 
means of a padlock. It seems not to have occurred to 
the man who inspected it, that his prisoner, Cooney, 
might have the key to this lock. But he did have it, 
and seeing the man make the examination, reminded 
him of the fact, ft was some time however, before he 
could persuade himself to abandon Miss Cradock; but 
it at last dawned on his infirm mind that if he could 
make his escape, he might serve her better than he was 
likely to, while a captive like herself. But his feet 
were toward the prow, and he feared that a movement 
would lead to his detection and as he supposed, instant 
death. Slowly, however, he worked about until, lying 
prone, he was able to reach the lock. But as it had 
not been unlocked for a long time, the escutcheon or 
guard over the key hole was immovable from rust. By 
means of the key he was enabled to wrench this off, 
and in another moment he had dropped the chain into 
the water and the steamer glided away. But Cooney 
soon saw that his escape had been discovered, for he 
heard great commotion on board, and saw that the 
vessel had stopped. 


132 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“ In another moment he saw a small boat carrying- 
lights, start in search of him. Knowing that he had 
no oars, the searchers supposed that his boat would 
drift helplessly down the current, which was swift; for 
it happened to be near the island, and where the larger 
volume of water flows around on the west of it, in a 
comparatively narrow channel. But fortunately the 
waves started by the steamer, not only retarded the 
speed of Cooney’s boat, but gradually drifted it toward 
the western shore. Seeing that they were in search of 
him, and inspired by the peril, or acting from instinct, 
he tore one of the plank seats loose, and by means of 
it carried the little boat out of the channel. But for 
some reason the search was soon abandoned, and the 
little steamer started on. 

“ Cooney has little recollection of how he got ashore 
or his movements afterward. He was probably lost in 
the heavy forests ; for it was the evening of the second 
day before he made his appearance at an obscure cabin, 
the inmates of which are scarcely more intelligent than 
himself, and could make nothing of the story he tried 
to tell them.” 

“ And this is all you have to tell me ?” I said. “ And 
you have done nothing to pursue and capture the kid- 
nappers?” 

“ On the contrary, we have done everything. The 
boat of the kidnappers was found fifty miles below the 
mouth of our river, in the Ohio, and has been brought 
back for identification. But when found, there was not 
a soul aboard, nor anything giving any clue whatever. 

“ No doubt the boat is the one which a week before 
arrived here with a cargo, and lay at the old wharf 
that evening. But the former name has been painted 
and cut out, and the significant one of ‘ The Fugitive’ 
has been painted over the old.” 

“ Is this all ? O, you tell me so much, and yet so 
little !” I groaned. 

“ Mrs. Downs,” he continued, as if I had not inter- 
rupted, “ on the return of Cooney, at once put in my 
hands ten thousand dollars, while Miss Parte has placed 
her entire fortune at my disposal. I have sent detec- 


BROKEN LIVES. 


133 


tives across the plains and others by ship, to California; 
but we must be patient.” 

“ Patient !” I cried, struggling to rise. “ Patient ! 
O, cursed be my coward heart! Oh, God, Thou 
knowest how to punish a craven! I would not slay 
him when he challenged, nay mocked death at my hand ! 
I weakly, and like a coward, let him escape these sin- 
ewy hands, and Thou hast withered them ! I disobeyed 
every impulse of manly courage, every dictate of pru- 
dence, and let this fiend escape ; and now (Thou art a 
just God!) Thou ‘ laughest at my calamity.’ Thou 
hadst implanted in my heart, as Thou hast in the meanest 
brute beast, the Toly instinct of self-preservation, and 
didst endow me with power to execute its high behest, 
but like a damned craven, when I held as in the hollow 
of my hand, his vile life, I pitied and would not slay 
him, because forsooth, he bore the image of Thy Son ; 
though he had sworn in my very face to undo and wreck 
my life. O, let all the thunderbolts of Thy just indig- 
nation fall upon, that they may annihilate me, soul and 
body ; a spirit so craven is unfitted for the joys of 
heaven, and too insensate to suffer any pang in hell !” 

“ O, Colonel Townshend,’’ cried Hortense, coming 
in, “ the poor fellow is mad. Alas ! I feared this.” 

But I was not mad ; and realizing the anxiety of my 
friends, for Colonel Townshend looked ready to cry, I 
was ashamed of my weakness and of the passion into 
which I had suffered myself to fall. I sank exhausted, 
into the chair from which I had half arisen. 

“ Felix,” began the Colonel solemnly, his voice 
shaken, “ you acted as became a man of your princi- 
ples and Christian training, and this yielding by you 
now to such awful passion, ill becomes you. You have 
been very ill, or certainly you would not behave so and 
alarm your friends.” 

“ O yes,” I cried, overwhelmed at the thought, 
“ O yes ! I have been ill. But what right had I to fall 
ill and forget the world — forget her — leave her to be 
carried away ? Ah, think you, if he had been in my 
stead and 1 in his, he would have fallen ill? No, no; 
in less than five hours he would have invoked the pow- 


134 


BROKEN LIVES. 


ers of the State against me. He would have compassed 
sea and land. He would have laid all, the earth, the 
sky — heaven — hell under tribute, to aid him in search- 
ing me out ! Single handed he would have pursued 
me into the very gates of perdition, though I had been 
flanked and followed and aided by a thousand legions 
of devils ! He would have driven me to suicide to 
escape his avenging hand ! 

“ O my God ! Do not shame me to death by remind- 
ing me that I fell ill , when my soul should have been 
above every earthly infirmity. The consciousness that 
her heart and hopes turned, in captivity to me (for I 
ought to have known she had been kidnapped) were 
enough, had I been worthy of one thought from her, to 
have panoplied me against the powers of every plague 
which has smitten the earth since the dawn of time. 

“ O heart of mine, why wert thou not steel ? Why 
faint, O boastful thing of flesh, of the earth, earthy ? 
Why wert thou not adamant, in the hour of her immi- 
nent deadly peril — curse thee! Curse thee!” 

I had risen now, and was staggering, like a drunken 
man, toward the door. 

“ O my mother’s God!” I cried, reeling along the 
room, “where wert Thou ' 1 1 ^ 



Asleep? I thought Thou 


Thine eye could not have beheld this crime, and 
winked at it. Away with the faith of my fathers; 
cheating dogmas, all, that beguile, while they blind 
their devotees ! 

“ This world, under whatsoever dominion other 
worlds may lie, is but a province, a dependent, an out- 
post of a Fiend — a Devil, in whose soul pity has no 
place, and in whose court, virtue and purity and maid- 
enly innocence are a laughing stock !” 

I had reached the door and was ready to fall, yet all 
my senses acutely alive, when I saw kneeling, with an 
uplifted crucifix, a Sister of Mercy, a faithful nurse 
through all the days and weeks of my struggle with 
death. 

Her pure, white face, wearing a look of frightened 
pity, arrested me. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


135 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A GHOST. 

The story of the kidnapping of a young lady, was 
in those early days so rare that this one spread through- 
out the land. Not in a day, as later and at this writ- 
ing, it would, but in the course of some weeks it had 
been reproduced in the newspapers far and near, 
shortly to be followed by the pitiful story of the sup- 
posed hopeless insanity and mortal illness of the girl’s 
lover. And then came rumors and wild stories of the 
discovery of the stolen girl. Papers containing these, 
were faithfully brought to me by Colonel Townshend. 

“ Not that I have any faith in it, my dear fellow,” 
he would say, as he came with a new one, “ but one 
never knows. And if it should happen to give us a 
clue, you know.” Not one of these was neglected, and 
as many as three were being followed up, when at last, 
about the middle of July, I was able to ride out with 
my friend in his carriage. I asked him to drive to the 
river. 

There were two things there I wished to see; the 
one, the little row boat from which my darling had been 
stolen, and which lay, as of old, in its quiet moorings, 
gently swayed by the little waves, and looking as peace- 
ful and serene as if it had not witnessed a scene which 
had stirred a million hearts and wrecked two lives — 
the happiest the earth had seen since the cherubim, 
with flaming sword, barred the gates of Eden; the 
other, the small steamer which had borne such diabol- 
ical part in that dark tragedy, and which lay now at 
the same landing from which, on that evening, it had 
started on its cruel errand. 

By the aid of my friend and the watchman, 1 went 
aboard of and inspected the craft which had for me, 
such melancholy interest. Its cabin was finished in ex- 
cellent taste, and the furniture yet remaining, was of 
finest quality. Still feeble, I sat down on a small divan 


136 


BROKEN LIVES. 


and leaned, with closed eyes against the wall, endeav- 
oring to conjure up the face of my lost Elsie ; for since 
my illness I could only occasionally recall its image, 
and consequently forever found myself trying to do so. 

Colonel Townshend, who made a point of talking 
with all manner of people, and so knew somewhat of 
every subject, had engaged the watchman in conver- 
sation in respect to the vocation of a fisherman, that 
having been the fellow’s employment before he was set 
to watch here. The Colonel, it appeared, had curi- 
ously drawn his companion out, on the subject of the 
superstition of fishermen. The watchman was saying 
that they were all afraid to pass near this boat at night. 

“Fishermen who have followed the business for long,” 
he went on, “ universally believe in ghosts and hobgob- 
lins. Two of them that fish down the river, have been 
telling a powerful ghost story just lately. You know 
where the big island is, some miles below ? W ell, there’s 
a cabin on the island, where old Johnson, the deaf and 
dumb fisherman — and his wife’s deaf and dumb, too, 
— lives. Well, sir, these fellows say and swear that 
they’ve seen a ghost there three different days ; the 
idea of seeing a ghost in the daytime! But it’s no use 
to laugh at them. They’re in earnest and wont be 
joked about it. They swear they see it every time they 
pass there.” 

“ I can well understand,” said the Colonel gravely, 
“ how people believe such things. I believe them my- 
self.” 

“You !” cried the fisherman. 

“ Yes,” answered the Colonel, “ I have no doubt, on 
the evidence we have all the way along, that the spirits 
of those whom we reckon dead, have at times appeared 
to the living. Not that they make a business of it, but 
they do no doubt, occasionally.” 

This was more than the fisherman had bargained 
for, and he directly turned the conversation. 

As we rode home, I asked, “ Colonel, how far is it 
to the island ?” 

He looked sharply at me, saying : “ Why do you 
ask T 


BROKEN LIVES. 


137 


“ I should like to go down there,” I answered. 

“ Why, I thought you were asleep while you sat in 
the boat. You heard what the fellow said, did you?’’ 
he questioned. 

“Yes,” I answered, “and what you said. I agree 
with you ; I, too believe in ghosts. So let us go. How 
far is it ?” 

“Yes, excuse me ; it is eight miles by land, but near 
twenty by water,” he answered. 

“ 1 don’t want to go by river,” I said. 

“ When shall we go?” he asked. 

“ To-morrow, starting directly after breakfast,” I 
answered. 

He endeavored to dissuade me, in which Hortense 
and her aunt seconded him ; but on consulting the phy- 
sician, that gentleman made no objection, but encour- 
aged rather, the idea. A doctor and his patient, in 
such matter, are a majority, and the minority yielded. 

I was restless and slept little, feeling that sort of 
nervous eagerness, I used, when a child to feel, on the 
eve of going abroad. 

So when Hortense came to me after breakfast, say- 
ing that my friend awaited me in his carriage at the 
door, if I had consulted my judgment rather than my 
desires, I should have given over going. 

The Colonel eyed me narrowly, as with some diffi- 
culty I mounted to my seat by his side. But we were 
soon riding over beautiful roads, through the green 
woods and by fields of ripening grain; and the odor of 
the country, always dear to the senses of one, rustic 
bred, revived and soothed me ; and we were at the end 
of the pleasant part of the journey much too soon, I 
thought. 

We had to leave the main road and traverse narrow 
lanes, quite two miles, to reach the river opposite the 
island, and a small part of the distance must be made 
afoot, for this region was wild and unreclaimed, like 
the island itself. Aided by my friend and Jack, the 
driver, I at last reached the river and was glad to sit 
me down and rest. After looking for some time at 


138 


BROKEN LIVES. 


the dark and forbidding aspect of the island, the 
Colonel said : 

“ If any fairly reliable person were to tell me that 
his Satanic majesty keeps his headquartei'S over there, 
1 should believe it. I guess you don’t care to go over, 
do you, Felix ?” 

I really did not, but having been in bad repute with 
myself for courage, in these last days, I determined that 
having come to inspect the island, I would not give it 
up, so. 

“ Tes,” I said peevishly, “ I care enough to do it.” 

“ But how are we to get across ?” questioned my 
friend, discouragingly. 

“We must find a way. There are fishermen, with 
boats, around here, no doubt,” I said firmly, and turn- 
ing to Jack, I bade him go in search of them. 

He soon returned, saying that he had found two fish- 
ermen, but they refused to take us over. 

“Where are they? This is preposterous!” I cried, 
rising. 

“ Not a hundred yards away,” Jack answered. 

“ Lead me to them,” I commanded, starting. 

“ Why will you not take us across ?” I asked, on 
reaching the fishermen. 

“ ’Cause we’re not ’bleeged to,” was the impertinent 
answer. 

“ But I will give you a dollar if you will oblige us,” 
1 entreated. 

The spokesman shook his head. I offered two 
— three — but he continued to shake his head. 

“ I will give you two dollars for the use of your 
boat,’’ suspecting that these were the same who had 
seen the ghost. The offer was declined. 

“ My good man,” I said, changing voice and man- 
ner, “ why do you refuse to let us have your boat?” 

“ I amt got no other,” he answered. 

“ But we will return it to you all right in an hour,” 
I argued. 

“ But s’posin it gits berwitched, what ’count will it 
be but to give me trouble ?” was the grave answer. 


BROKEN LIVES. 1 39 

“ You are a fool !” I cried in my impatience. “ What 
is your boat worth?” 

“ Five dollar an’ a ’alf,” he answered, after due con- 
sideration. 

“ Bring it here, you idiot, and get your money, ” I 
said, drawing my purse. 

He picked up the oars and as he pulled toward us, 
said, resentfully : “ I aint no idiot, I aint. I guess I 
knows. I’se fished ’ere too many a yur, not to know 
suthin’s mighty wrong on that ilen.” And he looked 
askance at the island. 

I paid him and as we got into the boat, he looked 
at it ruefully, saying, as he shook his head : “ You’s been 
a faithful ole boat to me, but you’s done for now, I 
’low.” 

Fortunately we reached the island at a point where 
there was an opening in the thick growth, which for 
most part formed a hedge about it. 

When the water was low, the island comprised some 
thirty or more acres, and was long and narrow. 

After resting for a little, and taking some wine, I 
felt equal to the task before us, aided as I was to be, by 
my companions, an arm of each of whom I held by. 

“ Let us go to the cabin of the mutes,” I said as we 
started on. 

“ Do you know, Jack,” said the Colonel, laughing, 
“ what Mr. Munro came here to see ?” 

“A ghost,” he went on, without waiting for answer. 
“ Yes sir, a ghost, as if he didn’t look enough like one 
himself.” But as he said this he looked at me with an 
expression of pity ; for he remembered. But I took 
no note further than to say : “All right, Colonel ; but 
I think those simple fellows have seen something, and 
I want to learn what it is ; for of course it is not a ghost.” 

I had no breath for talking, so we walked on in 
silence. I grew so tired that I suggested that we sit 
a minute on the convenient trunk of a fallen tree. I 
took more wine and we soon started forward again. 
The path was narrow, scarcely wide enough for two to 
walk abreast. But I could not surrender the arm of 
either of my companions, and so walked a little to the 


140 


BROKEN LIVES. 


rear, with my head bent. Suddenly something like a 
shudder appeared to shake Colonel Townshend from 
head to foot, and he stopped. 

“ Great God ! What is that ?” he gasped. 

I looked up at his face to see in what direction to 
look, for I saw nothing. His countenance startled me; 
it was frozen with horror. I looked forward, and yon- 
der, scarcely visible to me, because of the slight curve 
in the path, stood, some fifty yards away, a figure, the 
appearance whereof was enough to freeze the sturdiest 
blood. It was the form of a woman, standing motion- 
less as a statue. The hair was thin, but hung in wisps 
to the waist. One of the fleshless hands held a lock of 
the long, faded tresses. The single garment worn, ap- 
peared to be a long, loose woolen wrapper, much too 
large for the apparently skeleton figure, and hanging 
in tatters. The arms were bare to the elbows, and 
strangely fair ; the feet were unshod, and white like 
the arms. But it was the face that most affected the 
beholder. It was as the face of the dead, and at the 
distance seen, as expressionless. The eyes seemed 
dark and sunken, and the brows, black lines across the 
marble-like forehead. 

“ It is human, at least,” I whispered hoarsely. “Let 
us go forward.” 

Reluctantly and very slowly, my companions moved 
on, our eyes bent on the figure. When we had come 
within twenty paces of it, for the first time it moved, 
and toward us. We stopped ; the figure stopped. We 
moved forward, and in a moment it started. We 
stopped again, but this time the figure came on, appa- 
rently taking no note of our presence. It did not even 
appear to see us. 

And now a great fear began to shake my soul. A 
tremor ran through all my frame ; my knees smote one 
another ; my hold upon the arms of my companions 
began to relax. 

Colonel Townshend noticed this and though appar- 
ently transfixed with horror, turned to observe me. 
My face alarmed him scarcely less than that of the fig- 
ure. He placed his arm about me to support me; but 


BROKEN LIVES. 


141 

my eyes remained fastened upon the approaching form. 
When within five feet of me, it stopped and turned its 
face over its shoulder. And then I knew it was her 
face ! 

“Elsie!” I ejaculated in a voice so choked and 
broken as to be scarcely audible, and sank to the earth. 

My companions laid me along the path and the 
wretched girl moved on and would have walked over 
my prostrate body, but for the gentle interposition of 
Jack. 

For a time I was helpless, though my mind re- 
mained active. As I reflected, there began to form 
within me a great hope. I made a mighty resolution. 
I cried in the heart of me : 

“ Up, up, miserable weakling! This is no time to 
faint or fail.” But when I strove to arise, I could not. 
My friend came and bent over me : “ Ah, Felix, my son, 
may God pity you !” 

And he began to chafe my face, my temples, my 
hands. 

“ You must be yourself now,” he faltered. 

“ O God ! give me my father’s courage,” I cried as I 
staggered to my feet, leaning on my friend. I looked 
about. A hundred yards down the path we had trav- 
ersed, slowly walked the figure, and following closely, 
Jack. 

“ Come !” I cried, starting forward, but at the first 
step, I sank to my knees. I struggled to my feet again. 

“ O,” I cried, “ help me this once for sweet pity’s 
sake !” And trembling in every limb, I moved on. 

I gained strength as I staggered forward ; the will 
was dominating the body. At every step I grew more 
self-reliant. Forgetting my infirmity, I bounded for- 
ward, freeing myself from the sustaining arms of my 
friend. But when I came within a few feet of the fig- 
ure, I felt my heart dying again, within me. I slack- 
ened my pace, but did not stop. Then with a supreme 
effort of the will, I moved quickly past it. I dared not 
look back. At a distance of twenty yards or so, I 
stopped. I have never been able to recall the mental 
process impelling me to this course of conduct. 


142 


BROKEN LIVES. 


1 turned about. Slowly the figure came on. Be- 
yond it, I saw the figure of Colonel Townshend, and it 
was evident he thought me insane, too. I stood in the 
middle of the path, while wave after wave, like shocks 
from a battery, thrilled me from head to foot. But the 
will prevailed over the infirmities of the flesh as for- 
ever it must, in great battles won, and I awaited. The 
agony of these moments lay upon me like the weight 
of many years, instantly added to my life. 

But such agony cannot last ; thank God, it cannot 
last. Suddenly my limbs were as adamant ; my nerves as 
steel ! Not a muscle quivered, not a nerve wasshaken, 
as I stood looking dumbly into the awful face! It is 
within two feet of me, and with eyes as expressionless 
as those of a new-born babe, looking at, without seeing 
me, it came on. I opened my arms and enfolded it. 

I saw my friend cover his face for a moment, to 
shut out the scene ; then he sprang forward as if terrified. 

Gently he unclasped my arms, saying in broken 
accents : 

“Oh, my son, this will surely kill you ! Leave the 
poor child to me, and go with Jack to the boat.’’ 

Without a word ; without a look at the face which 
had lain once more against my bosom, for in the madness 
of despair I had pressed the wretched girl to my heart, 
I turned, and leaning on Jack, walked toward the river. 
He rowed me silently across, and spreading a rug he 
had carried all day for my use, bade me lie down. I 
obeyed, and he had scarcely turned to leave me before 
I was in that profound sleep which follows those inward 
storms that stir the great deeps of the hearts and souls 
of us. 

I was awakened by the voice of Colonel Townshend, 
saying: 

“ Can you go, now, Felix ? Let me help you,” and 
in a moment more I was unquestioningly walking 
toward the carriage. 

The sun was low. “ I must have slept some time,” 
I muttered to myself ; but my senses were still asleep, 
and I said nothing. When we reached the carriage, the 
figure sat in the back seat, and some one, a stranger, by 


BROKEN LIVES. 


M3 


its side, while Jack was in the driver's place, whip in 
hand. 

“ Get in here, Felix,’ said the Colonel, kindly, and 
indicating the front seat. I hesitated, my friend eyeing 
me anxiously. “ I must sit by her,” 1 said to myself. 
And then addressing the stranger : 

“ That is my place. You will sit here,” indicating 
the other seat. 

After a moment’s hesitation during which the Col- 
onel and the stranger exchanged glances, the seat was 
vacated, and after a whispered conversation with my 
friend, the stranger went away. Unaided, I had climbed 
into the seat by the side of the figure, and the carriage 
moved forward, the Colonel sitting in the front seat, in 
such position that he could see any movement in the 
rear one. 

The figure by my side had grown weary, and ere 
we had gone fifty yards, was lying in my arms, asleep. 
It chanced that it had leaned toward and not from me. 

I did not seek to look into the awful face, but sat gaz- 
ing through the window of the carriage, as emotionless 
as a statue of stone. There comes a time, oh, thank 
God, when the emotions must sleep or die ! 

Mine slept ! 


144 


BROKEN LIVES. 


book: iy. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“Love believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.” — Paul. 

Within a week I had been appointed guardian of the 
person and property of the stricken girl. I had not 
only the ample fortune bestowed by her uncle’s will 
upon Elsie, to devote to my settled purpose to bring 
about the restoration of her reason, if human skill could 
compass that end, but also had at my disposal, for that 
object, that of Hortense. And I would, and do not 
shame to confess it, have unhesitatingly devoted the 
last farthing of both fortunes, and have sold myself into 
perpetual bondage for yet other means to accomplish 
the now sole object of my life. 

Within a fortnight, she had been placed in the most 
famous institution for the treatment of mental diseases 
in all the land, and messages were en route to summon 
to a council the most learned experts in such diseases. 
After what seemed an age, these came. 

1 told them my pitiful story. I meant that whatso- 
ever interest could by the saddest tale ever poured into 
mortal ears, be awakened in the human heart, should be, 
in the hearts of these wise men. 

< Patiently and again and again, they examined every 
lymptom, noted every aspect and movement of their 
charge ; watching her sleeping and waking. 

“If she would but evince the slightest sensibility in 
any direction,” said one to another, not aware that I 
heard, “ but you observed that when I pricked her 
arm with a needle, she did not look at it, did not lift her 


BROKEN LIVES. 


145 


hand, though the adjacent parts quivered. The most 
insensate of the lowest orders, with life, and capable of 
motion, will withdraw a wounded part.” 

The other shook his head. “ It is indeed a hopeless 
case,’’ he agreed. 

“ Is there no hope?” I asked, walking in upon them. 

“My dear Mr. Munro, you must not, really you 
must not, press this inquiry now. We are but two of 
five into whose joint hands and hearts you have com- 
mitted this case, and you must await patiently a little 
longer, for we shall render our opinion in writing, and 
fully within a day or two,” answered the first speaker. 
And then after a pause, “ The young lady has never 
smiled since you found her?” 

Alas ! 1 could but answer that she had not. 

“ Oh,” I continued, clasping my hands in despair, “if 
she had but smiled, or evinced any — the slightest 
emotion — l should not be utterly hopeless, as I have 
been, I think, from the beginning.” 

“ Ah, yes, my friend,” was the hopeless answer. 

“ Oh, sir,” I cried, feeling unable to wait, “ is there 
no hope that she may grow as an infant grows ; that be- 
ginning life anew at the point where I found her, she 
may at length discover some sign, some evidence of 
intelligent being? Do not tell me there is no hope of 
this!” 


“ On this, as on every other point, you shall receive 
our most candid judgments,” was the only answer 
vouchsafed my eager questioning. 

I had forborne hitherto, making any effort by ap- 
peals to her sense of sight or hearing, to arouse the 
sleeping mind of the girl. I had feared to take the 
risk, or to make any experiment, because of my igno- 
rance, until I had taken counsel ol the highest authority. 
But all the while I felt that whatever the decision of 
these wise men, I should still have this left me ; and 
slight as was the prospect, it helped me to bear the 
suspense, and would, 1 felt, help me to hear the worst. 

“ So long as we both shall live,” I forever found my- 
self saying, “ I shall not cease my efforts to recall her.” 

(And in those cases where there is no cure this side 
10 


146 


BROKEN LIVES. 


the grave, oh, may we not hope that in the economy of 
God’s government, death is indeed and at last the 
panacea — the perfect cure for all mental disorder?) 

At last the council had held its final sitting and was 
ready to deliver its judgment. It would, no doubt, in- 
terest any scientific reader into whose hands these 
memoirs may chance to fall; and this opinion of these 
wise men will be left, with these writings, to be dis- 
posed of at the discretion of my executors, but I have 
not the heart to transcribe it on these pages. 

It will suffice to state that, from beginning to end, 
there was no sentence, no word, to inspire one poor ray 
of hope in a heart only too anxious to find something 
by which to hold, and to which in its appointed life 
work, it might, in hours of weariness, turn for courage. 

“ The lover’s task shall begin where that of the 
learned scientists has ended,” I cried, in my heart ; while 
I think my soul was inspired with something better 
than merely mortal fortitude and courage. 

I carried my darling back to her home. 

I had had ambition ; I took leave of it. I had 
aspired to the lofty walks of my chosen profession, and 
toward these had mounted with swift and eager feet; 
I turned my face from those heights, and my feet from 
those shining paths. Farewell, ambition ! Farewell, ye 
glorious walks, where the fearless elect, inspired by 
ambition, tread. Another, an obscure, aye, a hopeless 
task, is set before me. Even she for whom I must per- 
form it is never, in this world, to know how willingly, 
how patiently its work has been done. 

I called to my aid the most experienced nurses ; and 
of them exacted patient and unquestioning obedience. 
Day and night this helpless being must be under the 
eye of one of these, save only during those hours of the 
day when I should myself have her in charge. 

Each morning I met her as she was led from her 
room. With my own hand I gave her food, seating her 
day after day by my side, at the table. After the morn- 
ing meal I led her forth, each day extending our walk 
along the same path on which we had walked together 
last, on that evening in the springtime. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


147 


It was the middle of October when at last I led her 
to the old seat under the tree wherein the robins built 
their annual nest. I seated her and walked away some . 
distance from which to observe her. She had regained 
much of her lost flesh, and her hair, which had slowly 
fallen out, was being succeeded by a thick growth, 
wavy and soft, and fine as silk. It was the same golden 
brown, only through it were streaks of gray. 

On this morning, I felt an unusual hopefulness. This 
state was due to the fact that some mornings before, 
when I had led Elsie to the table and seated her, I had 
left the room for a moment. On my return the faithful 
Hortense had said that Elsie had, during my absence, 
looked toward my seat and moved uneasily in her chair. 
But if she had, she took no note of my return. Still, 
the look of mingled surprise and pleasure in the face of 
Hortense satisfied me that the movements of Elsie, 
whatever they had been, and whether chanced or intel- 
ligent, were unusual and significant. 

At dinner I again absented myself, and was ready to 
fall as I returned to learn the result. Again, Hortense 
maintained that the girl had looked toward my place 
and moved about, and in this was corroborated, though 
not confidently, by her aunt. And on the morning of 
this day, she had taken a spoon in her hand, as I lifted 
it to her mouth. 

As I stood thus, at the distance of a few paces, watch- 
ing her, an insect chanced to light on her hand. She 
looked at it. My heart stood still, for hitherto she 
had taken no notice of such things. A moment she con- 
tinued to gaze at it, then lifted the hand. The insect 
flew away, and the hand dropped. 

But I had in my mind now a graver matter. I was 
to make an experiment which I felt was to determine 
for the present at least, whether there was anything left 
on which to work, or to which appeal might be made. 

I had procured from his former host a large and excel- 
lent “ likeness ” of Costo, and had it with me now, as 
also one of myself, taken especially for Elsie a year ago. 
For the reader must remember that I bore at this time 
little resemblance to myself as I appeared when last 


148 


BROKEN LIVES. 


seen by her before her captivity. My hair, which had 
been closely shaven, was yet short, and like hers, 
streaked with gray ; while my face looked older by 
many years, and was thin. 

With emotions indescribable, I resumed my seat at 
Elsie’s side and laying my arm about her shoulders 
suddenly brought the face of Castelar before her. A 
shudder shook her from head to foot, and she started 
as if to arise. I stayed her gently, when she lifted her 
hands and covered her eyes. The very earth reeled 
before me, and I felt as if I should die of suffocation. 
I withdrew the likeness and tenderly, but with shaking 
nerves, removed her hands from her face, calling her by 
endearing names as of old. I felt, rather than saw, for 
1 had not the courage to look into her face, that she 
was searching for the hateful picture. Failing to find 
it she turned her gaze on me. O God! shall I ever 
forget that look? So full of an indescribable, insane 
terror and horror, mingled ! I could not bear the 
awful expression of her countenance. I folded her in 
my arms, hiding her face in my bosom, against my 
quivering heart. 

I must have sat so for some minutes, my soul in a 
sea of tumult, when 1 lifted her head and looked into 
her face. She was asleep. Gently stroking her silken 
hair, I awoke her. Her face was placid, but in her 
eyes lingered a remnant of the awful terror ; or did I 
but fancy it ? 

But I had not done. I drew forth the other picture, 
my own likeness, and as suddenly as before held it 
before her eyes. There was no shudder, no start, but 
gazing fixedly upon it, she slowly bent forward, draw- 
ing nearer to it, while I changed position, until kneel- 
ing before her, my face and the portrait side by side, 
confronted her. Her eyes were full of an expression of 
perplexity, as if she were endeavoring to recall some- 
thing dimly remembered. After a long moment she 
looked from the picture into my face, the shadow of 
perplexity deepening, while her lips moved as if form- 
ing the word, “ Felix,” and I heard a whisper as of my 
name. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


149 


“Ohow slight, how feeble these signs!” you will 
say. Ah, yes ; but they sufficed me now, and if they 
had been greater, I could scarcely have borne the joy 
of it. I strained her to my heart ; I covered her face 
with kisses and burning tears. I prayed, I wept, I 
shouted aloud. I laughed as one bereft laughs in his 
madness. I called her by every endearing name which 
love had ever suggested. At length, exhausted by 
emotion, I sank into the seat and sat, holding her unre- 
sponsive hand in mine. 

I led her home again ; in the greatness of my joy, 
walking upon the heights. 

Hortense, seeing the unwonted aspect of my face, 
followed us quickly into Elsie’s room. 

“ (3 Felix,” she began eagerly, and ready to cry at 
the sight of my countenance, “ what is it? ” 

No one can by words communicate signs so subtle 
as those I had seen in Elsie’s eyes; and as I ended my 
effort to do so now, the face of Hortense wore a pained 
look of disappointment. But despite all, 1 found grow- 
ing within me, a far-reaching hope to which nothing 
seemed impossible. 

And that night in my dreams, my darling came to 
me with radiant face, and with loving hands lifted my 
weary head, and laying it on her bosom, kissed me a 
thousand times, and blessed me for all that I had done 
and suffered for her. 

I had been urged by my friends and advised by my 
physician to remit somewhat my watch and care. “ It 
will wear out the heart and soul of you. Felix, if you go 
on so. Come with me, to-morrow, and help me to try 
a case. I need you. Elsie will be cared for. Hortense 
will take your place,” urged Colonel Townshend, a few 
days later. I hesitated, but at length consented. Since 
bringing her from the asylum I had not been absent 
from Elsie a day. Indeed, since finding her on the 
island, no day had passed, of which 1 had not devoted 
hours to watch and ward over her. 

I arose at the usual hour the next morning, but the 
attendants did not have Elsie ready to go with me to 
breakfast. A thought occurred to me. I hastened to 
Hortense. 


i5o 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“ Take charge of Elsie as soon as she quits her room, 
and take my place at the table, and after breakfast lead 
her forth, as I do. Watch her closely, and report.” 

Hortense promised to follow my directions. 

1 took my place by the side of my partner for the 
first time in many months, with that feeling of indif- 
ference which I suppose a slave, who does his task be- 
cause he must, experiences. I knew nothing of the 
cause to be tried, and understood that I was not ex- 
pected to know anything. It had been a ruse to get 
me away for a day. 

But presently I was conscious that something unus- 
ual was going on about me. I lifted my head, for until 
now I had sat leaning over a table, observing nothing. 
There was among the bar, the jury and the bench, not 
a dry eye. My changed appearance, my old looking 
face, my whitening hair, my “utterly worn and tired 
aspect,” as the judge described it to my partner, 
touched their kind hearts, and these strong men wept. 
The situation was too painful, so begging Colonel Town- 
shend to excuse me, I went to our office, for the idea 
which I wished to workout forbade my return to Elsie, 
now. 

As I walked the street this first time, I began to ob- 
serve the manner of the people toward me. Some 
bowed, a few took my hand and pressed it, silently. A 
group of women whom I passed, were weeping ; all 
looked at me with pity. It was good of them ; but it 
reminded me, as nothing else could have, of the dis- 
tance between this depth and that height on which I 
had a year ago stood, as the distance between these ap- 
peared to worldly ambition. 

In the office, I could only walk the floor and wait 
for the hour to come. I was in the habit of returning 
from my walk with Elsie, at about the hour of noon. 
It was until then 1 must wait. 

At half-past eleven I bent my steps homeward. 
Was any part of the great expectation with which I 
had suffered my mind to become filled, to be realized, 
or was the experiment to be a blank failure ? 

I met the housekeeper in the lower hallway. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


151 


“ Has Hortense returned?” I asked anxiously. 

“ She has not been out with Miss Cradock,” was the 
answer, accompanied with a significant expression of 
countenance. 

- Why?” I asked. 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Munro, but Miss Parte directed 
me to send you to her. She is in the library.” 

In a moment more I was walking down the long 
room. I could see Hortense sitting at the further end, 
near a window; and I fancied I saw a meaning look in 
her face. 

“ Sit down, Felix,” she commanded in a low, gentle, 
but as I thought, tremulous voice. I obeyed. 

“ The housekeeper tells me you did not go out walk- 
ing. Why?” I began. 

In a voice scarcely audible, came the answer : “Elsie 
would not go.” 

“ Would not go ?” I cried. “ O Hortense, sister, 
think what you are saying ! Don’t, for heaven’s sake, 
if you care for me, don’t say that idly !” 

“ Please, Mr. Munro, be calm. I shall tell you all, 
faithfully ; but remember, it is little I have to tell.” 

Hortense said this as if on the verge of a fit of 
weeping. 

“ Forgive my impatience, Hortense. 1 am so nerv- 
ous and shaken. Go on, pray,” I said. She went on: 

“ I met Elsie at the threshold of her room, as you 
directed, and taking her hand, as I have often seen you 
do, said, as you always say : * Come, Elsie, lee us go 
down to breakfast.’ I was not looking at her, but had 
turned to start, when I found she was not moving. 
Then I looked at her face, and — Felix — I don’t want to 
be too sure, but I thought I saw there, a look of anger, 
perhaps disappointment better describes it. It was, 
as you said the other day, a mere shadow, but — I may 
be mistaken. Did she ever refuse to go with you ?” 

“ Certainly not !” 1 said. “ What then ? Do go on, 
pray.” 

“ I let loose her hand and waited. At this moment 
the housekeeper came up stairs, and I beckoned to her 
to take notice. 1 took the hand again, and Felix, she 


152 


BROKEN LIVES. 


withdrew it, and after standing a moment, she turned 
and went into her room.” 

“O Hortense, you know not what joy you have awak- 
ened in my poor heart ; greater than I had hoped for 
ever again in this world. Can you tell me more ? Where 
is she? Where is my darling ?” And I arose to go to 
her, but Hortense reached forth her hand. 

“ Stay !” she pleaded, “ Please sit down. She is 
asleep now. I do not know that I ought to tell you ; 
for I think myself, there is nothing in it — but — ” and she 
paused. 

“ O sister, kindest, best of friends, tell me, pray tell 
me what it is!” I entreated. 

“ Now mark you, Felix, I think it was but the imag- 
ination of the nurse, but she says that Elsie, while sleep- 
ing, muttered something — your name , * Felix ,’ she thinks 
it was. She came to tell me.” 

Hortense was surprised at my reception of this in- 
telligence. I shook my head. But the other facts ! 
Were they not enough for this once ? 

It was arranged that we should proceed to the re- 
gion of Elsie’s rooms and that as soon as she should 
awaken, and be led to the door, Hortense should take 
her hand again. 

This plan was carried out. The nurse led her to 
the door, when Hortense took her hand, saying: 

“ Come, Elsie, let us go down to breakfast.” But 
Elsie stood as still as a statue. 

I walked slowly toward her, Hortense stepping 
aside. 1 reached forth my hand, when she lifted hers 
into mine, and moved forward, before I had spoken or 
taken a step. 

No bridegroom ever left the altar with his bride 
leaning on his arm, with a greater joy in his heart ; alas ! 
alas ! 

Seated at the table, for it had been kept in readiness : 

“Hortense,” I began, “in my childhood, I was the 
owner of a pet lamb, and its name was ‘ Elsie,’ for even 
then you know, I loved the bright faced little girl and 
named my pet lamb for her. Well, that lamb grew to 
know me. It would follow me everywhere. I fed it 


BROKEN LIVES. 


1 53 


from my hand. My brothers would offer it food, but 
unless very hungry, it would not touch it, while if I 
offered it, the little thing would take it, though it already 
had quite enough. It would come into the house to 
me, where, in the corner, I was used to sit on the floor, 
and read. It would lay its head on my knee and wait 
patiently for my attentions; but after awhile, not receiv- 
ing them, it would put its nose up to my face and 
bleat very softly. At last a wicked eagle carried it off. 

“ Do you know, Hortense, I have been thinking that 
if I can only teach this poor girl to love and look up 
to, and depend upon me, as my little lamb did ; if she 
will only do this and will learn to speak my name, I 
shall be content to devote the remnant of my broken 
life to nothing else but watching over and caring for 
her.” 

The tears ran down the face of Hortense, as she 
answered very softly: 

“G Felix, the love you bear this poor afflicted girl, 
were enough to call her from the dead ! Surely God 
will grant you this! ” 

And He did, blessed be His name; though in my 
madness I had cursed Him, and like a fool had said : 
“ There is no God.” 

Long and hopefully and patiently I strove to teach 
the simple lessons 1 had appointed. Other tasks, if oth- 
ers lay at hand, I put aside ; this, never. To feel, each 
day, that I was somewhat more necessary to her than 
on yesterday; this was what I strove for. To learn, 
after a few hours’ absence, that she had wandered about 
uneasily, in search of me; and to see her on my return, 
come to meet me, with a look of perfect content, and 
all this came, sooner even than I had hoped; this it was 
that grew to be as essential to my happiness, as my 
presence to her comfort. 

It was with fear and trembling that about a year 
after my experiment in the woodland, I again ventured 
to show her the picture of Castelar. Having advised 
Hortense of my purpose, I led Elsie into the library and 
seated her within the recess of a bay window, filled 
with the soft light of an autumn sunset. A small lamp 


J54 


BROKEN LIVES. 


stand stood near her. Hortense placed, unobserved by 
Elsie, the likeness on this stand, then sat down by her. 
In walking about I purposely, for Elsie always followed 
my every motion, stopped, so that the stand was 
between us. Her eyes fell upon the picture. For a 
moment her gaze rested on it, and then into her face 
came that awtul expression, filling me with unspeakable 
horror. I snatched the likeness and flung it behind me 
into the grate. But too late. 

With a piteous cry, neither a moan nor a shriek, but 
a mingling of both, she started to her feet as if to fly, 
but I sprang forward and taking her in my arms, 
sought gently to stay her. She looked up into my face, 
her eyes full of an unutterable terror, and her counte- 
nance contorted. I have no doubt that at the moment 
she thought herself seized by Castelar, and suffered all 
the agony of such a calamity. 

“It is I, Elsie, my darling; it is your own Felix! 
Do not be afraid. Castelar shall not harm you ! ” I 
pleaded, while she continued in such notes of despair as 
I hope never in this, or other world, to hear again, to 
moan and cry. But as I went on to entreat gently and 
to repeat my own name and hers, the aspect of terror 
abated, and as she lay upon my arm still looking into 
my face, she called my name, “ Felix,” again and again, 
in such piteous accents as would have moved the heart 
of a fiend. 

I bore her to a sofa and sat beside her, still holding 
her in my arms, and still endeavoring to calm her. 
Hortense sat on the other side, and while stroking her 
head, said : 

“ Don’t you know me, Elsie? Don’t you know your 
sister Hortense? Tell me, darling, that you know me!” 
As Hortense continued, Elsie turned her eyes from my 
face to hers and after gazing intently into it for a mo- 
ment, uttered the name, “ Hortense,” as a child learning 
to talk might repeat a word after its nurse. 

“O thank God !” cried Hortense, in suppressed and 
choking voice. Since her rescue, Elsie had till now not 
spoken the name of her foster sister. 

A great joy stuns and paralyzes, even as a great 


BROKEN LIVES. 


155 


grief. I sat in a sort of stupor, afraid, I think, to speak 
or move; and when I looked at Hortense, the tears 
were streaming from her eyes, though her face was full 
of an expression of joy. 

“ Look ! ” she cried, pointing at Elsie’s face, now 
averted from me. I lifted it, and lo ! She was weeping! 

All the precious gems lying in all the seas would at 
tnat moment have been as nought, in my esteem, com- 
pared with these precious jewels on my darling’s face! 
These first tears that had fallen from those dear eyes 
since her madness. 

Still I was afraid to speak, afraid to move. I sat as if 
the eternal destiny of an immortal soul depended on my 
remaining motionless and dumb; I scarcely breathed, 
while Hortense, as if reading my thoughts, was as mo- 
tionless as myself. 

For many minutes I had sat so, when, noting her 
perfect quiet, I looked into her face; she had fallen into 
a deep and gentle slumber, and there had risen on each 
pale cheek a hectic spot. Hortense arose quietly and 
brought pillows, when we laid her, still sleeping, along 
the sofa. 

I had sent for her physician ; one who had watched 
her daily from the beginning, a Doctor DeMancourt, 
who for reasons yet to appear, took more than a merely 
professional interest in his patient. 

Ah, if the soul, while yet in mortal environment is 
capable of such agony as that of hope and fear which 
mine, in this brief hour, suffered, well may its state of 
future retribution be described in Holy Writ as one of 
fire and of ceaseless gnawing of deathless reptile. 

I met the Doctor at the gate and led him along the 
walks of the grounds while I poured into his ear, in 
speech broken and ejaculatory, and only half intelli- 
gible, an account of the events just recorded, and at the 
end stood waiting for him to speak, as if his first word 
was to consign me to hopeless despair or to lift my soul 
into elysium . 

This physician, though little older than myself, pos- 
sessed to a degree that must have amazed the honest 
fellow, my affection and confidence. He had won these 


i 5 6 


BROKEN LIVES. 


by boldly dissenting from the hopeless prognosis of the 
council of experts. On reading their report and opin- 
ion he had said : “ This is positive cruelty ! Call it hon- 
est cruelty, if you will ; it is none the less cold-blooded 
— I will not say, brutal, since they are famous savants. 
They have no warrant and certainly no vocation, to say 
what, in effect, they do say, that there is no hope. 
There is hope, I tell you, and hope there must remain 
for, at least, a long time to come.” It was to Colonel 
Townshend that this was said. He had expressed him- 
self with more caution to me, while yet saying enough 
to win my confidence and affection, as I have said. 

He did not answer hastily now, though he must 
have seen that every moment was an age of agony to 
me. 

“ O sir, can you not speak one comforting word ? ” 
I entreated. 

“ Forgive me, Mr. Munro,” he said kindly. “ For- 
give me. I was thinking what I could say that might 
not be more cruel than silence. There are signs of 
promise in the story you have told.” And then as if 
alarmed at his own words, he added quickly : 

“ Do not, let me entreat you, do not build any 
hope on what I say! The young lady may awaken 
from this sleep ; nay, she probably will, in the same 
state in which she was before receiving the shock, for 
such it was. None but God — I speak reverently — none 
but God, who only ‘ apprehendeth our frame,’ can fore- 
see the course of this malady. Insanity has baffled, as 
it will, most likely, to the end of time, the wisest and 
most skillful. What appear the same phenomena rarely 
are followed twice, even in the same patient by the 
same results. All that 1 dare say, is that the incident 
proves that memory, reflection and emotion still survive; 
they are not extinct. She was shocked. Ten thousand 
pictures of persons she had never seen, would not have 
moved her. This one appealed to her memory, and it 
responded ; it is alive. Really I had feared it was dead. 
This tells us it has been sleeping. 

“ O, I do not know, sir !” he broke off, “ I do not 
know. God only, knows ! Pray do not hold by what 


BROKEN LIVES. 1 57 

I have said, or build much hope on what you have wit- 
nessed.” 

And taking my arm, he led me into the house. 
The nurse who had just come from her, said that Elsie 
had stirred once, but was still sleeping, and that Hor- 
tense was at her side. 

Seeing presently a light in the library, we went cau- 
tiously to the door and looked in. There, on the sofa, 
by the side of Hortense, sat Elsie, her face as placid, 
her aspect as listless as before. 

The hope that had grown within me in this short 
hour — and I knew not till then how it had filled all the 
chambers of my soul — died, leaving me faint and sick 
at heart. 

I walked toward her, when she arose and came to 
me as usual, evincing no sign ; even the hectic had faded 
from her cheeks. 

Dr. De Mancourt, having lingered at the side of 
Hortense, now came to us saying : 

“ At all events, Felix, you will still have the picture, 
if we should ever desire — if we should need it, you 
know — why, Mr. Munro, what ails you?” he added, 
laying his hand on my shoulder and eyeing me nar- 
rowly. 

“ Nothing, nothing !” I gasped, “ only I wish I could 
die ! O sir, if you think I might die, please do not inter- 
pose !” 

In my desperation at its effect on Elsie, I had flung 
the accursed picture into the fire, and it had been con- 
sumed. 

“ I see, I see now,” I went on falteringly, “ I see, too 
late, what I have done. O sir, I burned the picture ; 
and now there is nothing left us with which to work, 
with which to make appeal. There is no other likeness 
of the villain extant, perhaps not in all the world.” 

While the doctor affected to regard the matter as of 
little importance, I could see that he deeply regretted 
the loss of the picture. 

It was with feelings of deeper despair than ever that 
I took up the burden of life again. 

When kidnapped, Elsie had worn two articles of 


158 


BROKEN LIVES. 


adornment ; the one, the ring of betrothal, of small in- 
trinsic value, that I had placed upon her finger ; the 
other, the gift of her uncle — was a heavy gold chain of 
rare workmanship, and to which was attached a large 
locket, in the center whereof was set a costly jewel. It 
was no doubt because of these and a gold watch she 
wore, that the deaf mutes had kept her presence on the 
island a secret. They had stripped her of these as also 
of her apparel, during her long illness in the cabin, and 
had from time to time disposed of them to an unscru- 
pulous pawnbroker. It was not until a few days after 
the events just recorded, that I had, at the end of much 
difficulty, been able to find and reclaim the lost chain 
and locket. 

This locket had contained a miniature likeness of 
myself, but for the purpose of destroying evidence of 
identity, it had been removed. I was however, able to 
replace it with another from the same-picture. While 
sitting one evening by her side, I placed the chain in 
Elsie’s lap, the doctor and Hortense being present. 
She lifted it and looked long and intently at it, and then 
from it at my face with the same expression of perplex- 
ity before noted ; and then she tried to place it about 
her neck. I aided her, and having fastened it, I put the 
locket in her hand. Again she gazed at that, knitting 
her brows as one who struggles to recall a dimly re- 
membered thing. 

With trembling hand I touched the spring and the 
locket opened, revealing the likeness, when she gazed 
upon it for a long time, her eyes filling with a strange 
light, half of tenderness, half of fear. At length she 
murmured, “ Felix,” and lifted it to her lips ; then drop- 
ping it suddenly, clasped her face in her hands; and sat 
swaying back and forth, moaning piteously. 

I was so possessed by the study of her behavior, as 
evincing signs of intelligence, that I did not realize the 
pathos of the scene until I heard the sobs of Hortense 
and saw the tears on the face of the doctor, when it 
rushed upon my soul like a torrent, and I took the sway- 
ing form in my arms and pressed it to my heart. In 
the briefest space she had fallen into deep sleep. 


BROKEN LIVES. 1 59 

Many, many times this scene was re-enacted, but 
alas ! it always ended at the same point. 

But why go on, since a recital of the events oi this 
period of alternating hope and despair, could but weary 
the most patient reader? For at the end, I was sure of 
but this : Her memory and emotion still lived, but in 
such dormant state that no known means could suffice 
to awaken them. It did seem that nothing short of the 
touch of the Christ, in miracle, could restore my 
darling. 

One assurance I should mention, had been given by 
the doctors : even the most hopeless of them main- 
tained that there was no organic or structural disease 
of the brain. 

And thus was I left — for the most part in despair — 
to grope my blind and ever narrowing way. 

Endeavoring always to appear cheerful in her pres- 
ence, I addressed myself day after day to my appointed 
task. And now after all the years, I can look back and 
say that I never did it grudgingly. And in some meas- 
ure, I must have grown resigned, if not content, for 
each day, I said, “ Wait a little longer, O my soul, and 
God will replace the lights in the face of your darling, 
and it shall shine with immortal splendor.” 

Cherishing this faith — the faith of my mother — but 
which, in my despair, I had derided and cursed, my 
soul, if not satisfied, grew apace, heavenward. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

AN ANNIVERSARY AND AN APPARITION. 

It is the third anniversary of Elsie’s rescue from the 
island, and like the two preceding, is being observed at 
the mansion as a day of thanksgiving. It is a quiet, 
even a solemn occasion, at which are few invited guests, 
Colonel Townshend being, of course, of the number. 

Let it not, however, be supposed that this beautiful 


i6o 


BROKEN LIVES. 


home was a joyless place, wholly. These memoirs have 
dealt only with its sorrowful aspects. The grand old 
manse sheltered two souls as happy as souls may be in 
such a world as this : Hortense and Dr. De Mancourt. 
For it transpired long after that these two generous 
people had become lovers while engaged, side by side, 
in a wager of battle for my life, following the kidnap- 
ping of Elsie. And a year ago, this day, in the great 
parlors of the dear old house, in the midst of a multi- 
tude of friends, the solemn words linking their lives 
and destinies, had been said. 

This simple statement of the joyous event must suf- 
fice, for my pen hastens. 

Every summer since my illness following Elsie’s 
captivity, I had suffered a recurrence of fever. I was 
ill now, but anxious not to mar the pleasure of my 
friends, had managed to disguise the fact, though I 
was almost blind with dizziness. 

On these occasions, Hortense, to please me, arrayed 
Elsie in the same garments she wore on the evening of 
the fourteenth of April, when we had visited the robins, 
and in the twilight of which I had taken leave of her. 

This apparel, though strangely out of fashion, was 
yet strangely becoming ; its somber colors, for it was a 
mourning costume, contrasting not unpleasingly with 
the delicate pallor of the wearer. 

Elsie wore this apparel now, even to the slippers she 
had on, when at the door she said : “ Remember, Felix, 
darling, meet me at the river at precisely six o’clock.” 

And so arrayed she sat, after dinner, by my side, on 
a great sofa. It was evening, and three shaded gas jets 
shed a soft and mellow light throughout the room. 
The day had been of unusual warmth, and the windows 
and doors, except the wire screens, were open, and a 
grateful breeze springing up since sunset, blew gently 
through the apartment. 

At length grown weary, for she was capable of con- 
siderable excitement on such occasions, and as I at least 
persuaded myself, dimly understood their meaning, 
Elsie had laid her head in my’bosom, its favorite resting 
place, and while I stroked and caressed her long silken 


BROKEN LIVES. 


161 


hair which hung loose about her shoulders, she had 
fallen asleep. 

Of all the guests of the evening, Colonel Townshend 
alone remained ; the others present being Doctor De 
Mancourt, Hortense, and Elsie’s nurse. The Colonel, 
always fond of discoursing on learned themes, had 
adroitly led the Doctor, himself a proficient in, espe- 
cially, the English classics, into a disputation as to a 
passage in Shakespeare. 

The controversy had grown until I had been drawn 
into it, and having laid Elsie along the sofa, had joined 
the group. At length the contention waxed so warm 
between the two leading disputants, that one, the 
Colonel, as I remember, proposed to lay a trifling 
wager, which, being covered by the Doctor, it was 
agreed that we should repair to the library and appeal 
to the authorities, Hortense and myself going along, 
professedly as arbiters, but really as partisans. For I 
had stood with the Colonel, while Hortense was en- 
tirely sure of her husband’s position. 

Admonishing the nurse who sat at a window at the 
end of the room, I followed the others. 

Having settled the disputed point, we fell upon 
other topics, and so lingered. A full half hour had 
passed and we were all sitting about a table and for the 
moment silent, when suddenly our ears were pierced 
by a long scream of agony, so appalling that for the 
instant we sat as if frozen with horror, looking into each 
other’s blanching faces. Then followed shriek after 
shriek. I sprang forward, fairly flying out of the 
library, along the passage and into the drawing room, 
in the midst of which I met the reeling, staggering 
form of Elsie, her eyes full of that awful terror, her face 
distorted. She was still shrieking, when seeing me, she 
stretched forth her hands, crying piteously: “Felix! 
Felix ! save me ! ” and fell into my arms in a dead 
swoon. 

Full of remorse at having left her so long, and feel- 
ing as one must who suddenly finds his best-beloved 
slain, I carried her to the sofa. There were no signs of 


BROKEN LIVES. 


162 

life ; her lips were purple, her eyes half open and fixed, 
as in death. 

My heart seemed to stand still, and blindness seized 
me. I sank upon my knees, praying- silently, but with 
such fervor as I had never before felt that I, too, might 
die. I think I was losing consciousness, when a strug- 
gle and a gasp from Elsie arrested me. With an effort 
scarcely mortal, I staggered to my feet crying: “ Help ! 
help! O in Pity’s name, will no one help me!” While 
already my friends had lifted Elsie and were endeavor- 
ing to restore her. 

I recalled bitterly now how, in every instance of her 
dire need, I had proved recreant to aid her. I shook 
myself as a beast that would rid itself of chains and 
staggered forward, resolved to help. Out of pity my 
friends suffered me, though I could only impede them. 

My poor darling was breathing, but manifesting no 
other signs of life. Her lips were purple still, while 
her hands were cold and clammy as those of the dying. 
That she was rapidly approaching the end I doubted 
not, and felt my heart breaking. I turned to the physi- 
cian, saying hopelessly: 

“ Doctor, I might as well have murdered her myself 
as to have left her exposed to this.” 

“ Exposed to what, Felix? What do you mean?’’ 
he questioned eagerly. 

‘‘Alas! I don’t know! I don’t know, but why did I 
leave her?” I answered, sinking into a chair. 

I cannot tell what more was done. That my friends 
were exerting t’netnselves earnestly, I knew dimly, but 
was too dazed and hopeless to observe them. 

Presently the Doctor, turning a moment from his 
patient, administered to me a potion, which I swallowed 
mechanically, and remember no more. 

When I awoke the gray light of dawn was stealing 
through the curtains of my window, for I had been 
carried to my room. A watcher sat, nodding, at the 
foot of my bed. Instantly my mind recurred to the 
events of the last night, and though suffering from a 
raging fever, I arose and was stealing from my room 
when the watcher awoke and came toward me, expos- 


BROKEN LIVES. 


163 

tulating ; but I answered so calmly that he became 
satisfied, and seeing that I was dressed, for my clothing 
had not been removed, he opened the door and suffered 
me to pass out. 

I had not the courage to ask him of Elsie, and 
started on, but not knowing whether she still remained 
below, I turned and looked at him, hoping to read in 
his face the tidings I dared not hear from his lips. 

“ Is she still in the library?” I faltered. 

“No, I think she has been removed to her room,” 
he answered. 

“ O she is not dead then ! ’’ I cried, as I started for- 
ward with more heart. 

Without knocking, I opened the door and entered. 
The dim light of a lamp discovered the form of a single 
watcher at the head of the bed. It was Hortense. She 
arose and came forward, saying in a frightened whis- 
per : “O Felix, is it you? Why, the Doctor said you 
were so ill ! ” 

“Tell me of Elsie; is she yet alive? Is there any 
hope?” I questioned. 

Before answering, Hortense chanced to turn so that 
the light fell upon her face, and I saw that she had been 
weeping. She motioned me to be seated, and drawing 
her chair up, sat by me. Her behavior would, at an- 
other time, have excited and alarmed me beyond meas- 
ure; but a raging fever, like intoxication, blunts the 
sensibilities and inspires courage. She appeared to be 
making a great effort to control herself before speak- 
ing. 1 could hear Elsie breathing, and that helped me 
to wait with some patience. She was, at least, alive. 
But now, when I looked into Hortense’s face, I fancied 
it was full of a light such as I had never seen in it 
before. This set my feverish brain afire. I could wait 
no longer. 

“ In the name of the pitying Jesus, tell me, tell me, 
Hortense!” I gasped. She bowed her head, appar- 
ently overcome, and laying her face in her hands upon 
my knee, sobbed hysterically. 

A long moment I waited in an agony of perplexity, 
and then with an impatience of which I have thought 


164 


BROKEN LIVES. 


with shame, a thousand times, I whispered, hoarsely : 
“ You wish to kill me, Hortense ; you wish to kill me ; 
else you would not treat me so!” 

She lifted her face, full of mingled reproach and 
pity, and looked into mine ; but when she saw its aspect, 
the look of reproach vanished, only that of pity 
remained, as, taking my hand, she stroked it tenderly, as 
she said in broken accents : 

“ Oh, my poor brother, how can I tell you without 
stirring too much hope in your loving, faithful heart ! 
After all, it may not signify, and then you must suffer 
all the more for the disappointment.” 

I was dumb, and sat staring at, while scarcely seeing 
my companion, as she continued, falteringly : 

“ She talks almost constantly. Much of what she 
says is meaningless ; but she has called for you many 
times: ‘ Where is Felix? Will he never come? Oh, 
will he never come ?’ And once when I bent over her as 
she said this, she looked up into my face, saying: ‘Does 
he know, tell me, does he know I have come home ?’ 
and while I answered, her eyes closed, and she began 
again to talk unintelligibly.” 

As Hortense ended, I seized her rudely by the 
shoulders, saying : 

“ In the name of God, why was I not sent for?” But 
seeing the expression that arose in her face, I added in 
a voice of entreaty : 

“ Forgive me, Hortense ; forgive me ! I am a brute 
to treat you so.” 

Without answering she arose, and taking my arm, 
drew me out into the corridor, and sending the nurse 
who waited there to Elsie, led me to my own room and 
sat me down, before speaking a word. 

“ I urged that you be sent for,” she began, “ but my 
husband forbade it. He said you were in raving de- 
lirium. He has spent most of the night by your bed- 
side, himself administering the medicine to cool your 
fever. It is only an hour since you grew quiet. You 
are on the border of delirium now, and must lie down. 
I have done very wrong to allow you to remain a 
moment out of your bed ; but, oh, Felix, brother, I too, 


BROKEN LIVES. 


I6 5 


have been beside myself. I felt I must tell you. But 
the doctor fears that it is only because of the raging 
fever that she talks with this seeming intelligence. He 
says we must wait and build but slight hope on what 
has happened. 

“ There, now, dear, let me help you to bed ; for you 
look ready to faint.” 

I arose with her aid, and staggering to the bed, fell 
upon it. My head was bursting; the fever having 
returned in full vigor, was consuming me. 

Hortense laid wet cloths upon my burning, throb- 
bing forehead, and while I lay chiding myself bitterly 
for falling ill at the only moment, perhaps, when my 
darling would ever be able to recognize me — speak to 
me — 1 sank into unconsciousness. 

When I awoke, it was morning again,' and doctor 
DeMancourt was sitting at my bedside. 

“ Tell me, Doctor, is there any hope?” I began. He 
looked at me quickly, but did not answer. Thinking 
that his silence meant the worst, “ Do not, pray do not 
keep me in suspense/’ I entreated. 

He arose and lifted a curtain of the window, then 
returning, looked at me narrowly ; and seeing that I 
was waiting, he said, quickly: 

“ Pardon me, Felix ; I did not know — I mean your 
mind has been wandering. 1 have no bad news.” 

This sounded like evasion. 

“ What news have you ? Pray do not withhold the 
truth. Nothing can be as bad as suspense,” I pleaded. 

“You are very, very weak, my dear friend, and 
must not talk. You have taken no nourishment for 
three days. Don’t you see you must be perfectly 
quiet. Your fever is down now, but the slightest ex- 
ertion will throw you back.” 

He spoke very gently, but without pause. I divined 
his purpose, and with great effort remained quiet, for 
what seemed a long time, and until overcome with 
anxiety. 

“ Nothing can be as hurtful as this suspense,” I re- 
peated. “If you will not tell me, I must go and see for 
myself,” 


BROKEN LIVES. 


1 66 

And I struggled to a sitting posture, before he could 
interpose. 

“ Tut, tut, tut, Felix,” he said, laying gentle hold of 
me and pressing me back upon my pillow. “ You must 
not think of such a thing ! Whatever you do, don’t do 
that. The effect might be disastrous to the last degree 
— on her — to say nothing of yourself.” 

He said this very earnestly. And then after a 
silence, during which I was pondering his words, and 
endeavoring feebly to extract from them a grain of 
comfort, he went on : 

“ Felix, will you be content to ask no questions, if I 
tell you that this is probably a supreme crisis. Not in 
respect of life and death, but — in short, of all things 
I should dread most, what might follow what you just 
now threatened. Forgive me, my dejy* fellow, but t 
have just been telling Hortense how fortunate I esteem 
your present illness.” 

I lay at the end of this speech bending upon him 
such a look as, with all his courage, caused his color to 
change as he arose and walked lightly about the room, 
with averted face. He ended by going to the window, 
where he stood gazing out ; and at last very cautiously 
drew forth his handkerchief and carried it to his eyes. 

He had said enough. Great as was my anxiety, 
nothing could have induced me to ask, without his 
leave, another question. The wish of this faithful 
friend, who as I believed would have given his life to 
restore my darling to me, was entitled to my respect and 
obedience. 

Again and again I went over his every word, until 
within my soul there began to grow a hope that com- 
passed all things. Oh, the longings of those tedious 
days. Hortense visited me hourly, but limited her 
stay to a few minutes, and her speech to the simplest 
commonplaces. 

Three times each day and again at midnight the 
doctor would come; but our intercourse in respect of 
Elsie’s condition was in pantomime ; I questioning him 
with my eyes, he answering with his. 

My head, never quite right since that awful illness 


BROKEN LIVES. 


167 


of three years or more ago, had been wrecked anew by 
this present fever, and while now the fever was gone, I 
could not rise from my pillow, without being seized 
with a blinding vertigo ; though when lying still 1 felt 
equal to the task of quitting my bed. 

My mind was strangely acute and active. I thought 
much of what it could have been that had frightened 
Elsie ; for I was sure that the cause had been external, 
objective. 

Could it be, I questioned hourly, that Castelar had 
presented himself? No, no; fiend, devil, as he was, he 
could not have done such a thing; fear, if nothing else, 
would have deterred him. 

At length, on the fifth day, as 1 remember, from that 
of my interview with the Doctor, I begged that Elsie’s 
nurse be sent to me. 

“ I have questioned her fully, but if you wish to do 
so I will bring her here.” It was the Doctor who said 
this, and then after hesitating, he added : “ But, my dear 
fellow, you must not ask a single question about — you 
understand ? ” 

“ O have I not shown myself capable of keeping 
my promise, though I made none in words ; after lying 
here with my heart bleeding?” I cried, peevishly. 

“ There, now ; there, now ; forgive me, that’s a good 
fellow,” he answered soothingly, as he left the room. 

In five minutes he was back with the nurse, a person 
of rare qualities. She had the manners of a gentle- 
woman, and stood as much on her dignity. Possessed 
of excellent common sense, she had acquired much wis- 
dom. and was positively incapable of falsehood. I had 
always treated her with the highest consideration and 
the utmost liberality, and enjoyed in return her un- 
swerving fealty and deepest sympathy. 

Her behavior toward her afflicted ward can be 
compared only to the care bestowed by a loving mother 
on a helpless, only child. 

She took a seat facing me and sat waiting, respect- 
fully, but with an air of embarrassment. 

“ Mrs. Anna,” I began, “ do you know or suspect 
what it was that frightened Miss Cradock?” 


BROKEN LIVES. 


1 68 

“ Well, sir,*’ she began falteringly, “ my first duty is 
to confess my fault in disobeying your command to 
watch my poor charge, my poor girl. The evening 
was so warm, as you will remember, sir, and it looked 
so cool and inviting out in the grounds, with the moon 
shining and the delightful breeze, that I thought I might 
go out for a minute’s recreation, as Miss Elsie appeared 
so quiet and sound asleep. I slipped out at the window 
and had taken a turn along the walk to the carriage 
way and back. I looked in, and seeing that Miss Elsie 
was yet quiet, I walked again, sir, to the drive and had 
turned about and was walking slowly along, my eyes 
on the path before me, when suddenly, I know not why, 
sir, I raised my eyes and looked in at the window when 
1 beheld such a sight as I never had seen before, sir, 
and as I shall never forget. For there stood by the 
sofa a figure, far taller than any man I ever saw, sir. 
It wore no hat, its hair was long, reaching to the shoul- 
ders; its face was white, not pale, but white, whiter 
than any human — I mean, sir, whiter than any face I 
had ever before seen ; and on the face as it appeared to 
be looking down on the girl, there was such an expres- 
sion of pity, of sorrow, as I am sure was never seen on 
any human — on any face before, sir. And it was all so 
sudden that 1 just stopped and felt unable to move, sir, 
and was just looking at that sorrowful face, so full of 
pity, sir. And I need not tell you what I thought or 
what 1 hoped it might be, sir, for you would only think 
me foolish, and perhaps wicked; though there have 
been people cured of other maladies after such visits. 
And while I stood so, sir, I saw Miss Elsie throw her 
hands up like one startled ; and then she sprang up, 
with that awful shriek that you all heard, and the figure 
glided out and disappeared. And that is all 1 know or 
saw, sir.” She paused, and with hands folded, waited. 
I could not have spoken if my life had depended on it. 
What before had been a vague suspicion, was now a 
certainty. 

“You are a Spiritualist, I believe?” at length sug- 
gested the Doctor. She answered, modestly, that she 
was. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


169 


I motioned her to quit the room. When she had 
gone I turned my eyes upon the Doctor. He was 
watching me narrowly. 

“ It was that fiend, Castelar, after all,” I groaned, 
thinking again of my helplessness. 

“ 1 tell you, Doctor De Mancourt,” I continued, my 
soul full of bitterness, as I reflected on all the evil that 
man had wrought, “ Fate — for surely a tender and lov- 
ing God could not have suffered all these black calam- 
ities to befall ; Fate, I tell you, is against me. And 
having, alas, worshiped and believed in the true God — 
forsooth — I know not how to propitiate this grim 
deity.” 

“ For shame ! For shame ! Felix Munro,” cried the 
Doctor, aghast. 

“ Shame not me ! " I cried. “ But if you know what 
power rules in our puny affairs, in this waste and fallow 
field called Earth, tell me, tell me, that I may cry it 
shame! and curse it in its very teeth ! For, henceforth, 
against its dominion I’m a rebel, eager to swear my 
allegiance to its most puissant adversary! Aye, let us 
have the very Prince of Darkness for our sovereign 
Liege and Ruler ; for he at least will not suffer common 
fiends to revel in his domain.” 

I had struggled to a sitting posture, while the Doc- 
tor, with livid, frightened face and staring eyes, stood 
looking at, as if afraid to touch me. 

But the objects in the room began to quiver, sway 
and dance ; and then they glided into darkness. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE MORNING BREAKETH. 

The fever and delirium had returned, and my 
friends had for some days despaired of my life. My 
mind was in oblivion, and well it was for me, no doubt. 
Again the light of an early dawn was stealing 


170 


BROKEN LIVES. 


through my window, when I opened my eyes, and saw 
standing at the foot of my bed the Doctor and Hor- 
tense. They were talking earnestly in subdued tones. 
But I presently caught a fragment of Hortense’s speech 
which thrilled me to my finger ends. 

“She asks for him so piteously that it breaks my 
heart to hear her/’ she said. The Doctor shook his 
head. 

“ Ah, but for this relapse he might have been almost 
well now. I never can forgive myself for allowing him 
to hear the story of the nurse. And, poor fellow, his 
mind went back into darkness and oblivion before I 
could tell him that it could not have been Castelar,” 
was what the Doctor said. 

“ Do you really think, my dear, that he might not 
have evaded the police?” questioned Hortense. 

“ It is impossible ; or if he did, he is still in hiding in 
the city. No, it surely could not have been he. A 
person so distinguished of aspect as Castelar, could not 
have escaped the vigilance of half a hundred police- 
men, not to speak of the thousands of citizens who 
joined in the search.” 

No tongue or pen can describe the sense of relief with 
which these last words filled me ; no effort had been 
spared to capture the fiend. 

I longed to speak, to urge the doctor not to suffer 
the vigilance of the police to be relaxed ; for I still be- 
lieved, not doubting that the tall figure seen by the 
nurse was none other than Castelar. But if I dared to 
speak, I should hear no more. 

Hortense had stood for some time looking ap- 
parently straight at me, when she began again in the 
same gentle tones : 

“ Poor dear, she still thinks she has been in captivity 
on an island. She said yesterday : ‘ He might search 
forever, he could never find that dreadful place. It is 
in the midst of a sea and no vessel, only just that one, 
ever touches it.’ And then, later in the evening she 
turned her eyes upon me as I sat by her, and looked so 
eager, as she said: ‘You are sure he knows by this 
time, that I have come home? O Hortense, if he should 


BROKEN LIVES. 


171 

not know, and go on searching ; he might go for months 
or years even, for he would never give me up ! he 
would seek through all the world ; I know he would. 
I know he would. For 0,|he loved me so truly!’ And 
she clasped her hands, while the tears ran down her 
face.” 

And the doctor for answer buried his face in his 
handkerchief. 

The surging of my blood, which just now was like 
an angry sea, had subsided, and a heavenly calm, “ a 
peace that passeth understanding,” had supervened, 
tilling all the chambers of my being. I closed my eyes 
in humble thanksgiving. Then I stretched my hand 
toward Hortense, calling her name softly. She came, 
and bending over me, looked into my face. And she 
knew that I had heard. 

She glided to the window and lifted a curtain, admit- 
ting just a little more light, and then with her husband, 
returned to my bedside. The doctor was about to 
speak. I motioned him to be silent. 

“ Not a word ! Leave me please,” I entreated calmly. 

They quietly quitted the room, Hortense pausing at 
the door, and looking back at me, doubtingly. But I 
smiled reassuringly, and she went out. 

I could have borne no more. My soul still full of 
an unspeakable joy and peace, I sank as calmly as never 
since a child I had, into a dreamless slumber. 

When I awoke, the doctor, his face full of anxiety, sat 
at my bedside. I extended my hand ; he grasped it smil- 
ing- as he said, cheerfully : “You are getting on bravely, 
bravely, my dear fellow. Never saw anything like it. 
And this is such a glorious day ; it’s a pity you can’t 
be out enjoying it.” 

But my mind was too full of other thoughts to 
dwell upon those of the weather or the day. Still 
holding his hand, I said feebly, though calmly enough. 

“ Now, will you not tell me more of her. Have I 
not waited patiently?” 

“ Now, Felix, you are forgetting yourself ; forget- 
ting your compact. You are too weak. It will not do.” 

“ The compact is discharged. It is useless to evade. 


1 72 


BROKEN LIVES. 


I must know,” I argued and urged. He hesitated, 
perplexed and doubtful. 

“Very well,” I resumed, “let me tell youthen.” 
He accepted the suggestion eagerly ; and I went on, 
for I had worked it all out from Hortense’s statement : 

“ She thinks she has been a prisoner or in some sort 
of captivity, on an island of some far away sea ; and 
that in some way, by a chance vessel, I think, she has, 
she imagines, been rescued and brought home.” 

“ Yes, yes ! Go on,” interjected the doctor eagerly. 

“ And she has been asking for me ; and you have told 
her that I am away searching for her ; and poor dar- 
ling, she believes it ; though I am so utterly worthless, 
it is doubtful if l had done it. Of course I should not ; 
I’d have fallen ill and left her to hope in vain for my 
coming. 

“ O doctor,” cried 1, overwhelmed with a sense of 
my weakness, “ please never tell her how worthless I 
am ; what a weakling I am !” 

“Now, now, Felix, shame on you! Oh, I must go. 
You’ll bring the fever back, if I stay and listen at you 
rave.” And he arose, as if to start. 

“ Please do not leave me ; not yet. I’ll be patient,” 
I entreated. He sat down. 

“Now tell me,” I went on, “ tell me, please, how she 
looks, what she says; and O doctor, has the fever left 
her? And is she rational when there is no fever ? Or 
is it only the fever that enables her to understand ?” 

As 1 ended, he sat looking thoughtfully out of the 
window. I held my breath in anxious expectancy ; for 
I knew that he was reflecting how most fittingly to 
answer. 

He turned toward me and began : 

“ Since you already know so much, I will tell you 
more on condition that you promise to be patient and 
obey me. I shall require nothing unreasonable.” 

I promised, and he continued : 

“ For many days her fever raged fearfully, and was 
so unyielding that we almost despaired of her life. 

“ Duringthis period she talked much, mostly as Hor- 
tense tells me, of those events which transpired before 


BROKEN LIVES. 


173 


her captivity, and in which you took part. She spoke 
often, as if addressing you ; sometimes it was of your 
approaching marriage, again it was of the robins and 
of the squirrels. She fancied often, herself with you 
in the woodland, and talked, one moment, as if to you, 
the next, as if to the birds, calling them by their names. 
I did not understand its significance until my wife ex- 
plained. It gave me great hope. It established on a 
more secure foundation the belief I had long enter- 
tained, that the brain is in a healthy state, and that the 
trouble was purely functional. 

“We had already seen that the shock produced by 
seeing the portrait, started the brain to working. But 
its action was evanescent — the cause being transitory, 
momentary, really; and afforded, therefore, slight 
ground for hope or prophecy. But the fever, a more en- 
during cause, and acting directly on the brain, and not 
indirectly through the sense of sight, afforded many 
more phenomena oft-recurring.” 

Seeing my eager look and flushed face, the doctor 
paused, alarmed at what he had done. 

Exerting every energy of mind and soul to appear 
calm, I entreated him to go on. “ If you leave off here, 
I shall go distracted,” I urged. “You have not told 
me how she behaved when the fever abated,” I argued. 

He resumed, but not without evincing regret that 
he had entered upon the subject : 

“ It still remained problematic what would follow 
the subsidence of the fever — the cause. Would the 
mind lapse into its former state of inactivity ; or, hav- 
ing been set in motion, would it move on of its own 
momentum ? The fever abated. Then followed two 
days of perfect, speechless quiet. But on the third she 
addressed Hortense, greeting her as one greets a friend 
after long separation. Hortense, after an absence of an 
hour returned into the room, when Elsie threw up her 
arms, crying: ‘Ah, Hortense, dear Hortense, I am at 
home at last. Where have you been so long, that you 
did not come? Did you not know I had comeback?’ 
And Hortense, understanding the significance of this 
behavior, responded with a joyous greeting, and they 


174 


BROKEN LIVES. 


were directly in each other’s arms, and both weeping for 
joy, while Elsie continued to speak of her return, and 
of her long captivity on an island. 

“ Hortense having at length taken a seat where they 
could look into each other’s faces, Elsie suddenly asked 
for you : ‘ Where is Felix ? Oh, Hortense, why does 

he not come? Does he know I have come? Where is 
he, please?’ I had expected this, and knowing that it 
would be days before you could see her, I stepped 
forward before Hortense could frame any answer. 

“ ‘Excuse my intrusion, Miss Cradock,” I began, ‘but 
you speak of Mr. Munro, I think. He is not at home, 
at present.’ 

“As I spoke a sorely perplexed and puzzled look 
shone in her eyes. She knitted her brows, as when 
there is a struggle of memory. I waited. 

“ ‘ Yes, Felix; Felix — Munro,’ she mused. ‘ Where 
is he? Where is Felix — Munro?’ 

“ Drawing nearer and bending over her so that she 
might look into my eyes, I answered slowly, giving her 
time to grasp each word : 

“ ‘ Miss Cradock,’ I began ; but seeing the puzzled 
look again, and her lips move as if repeating the name 
‘ Cradock,’ I began anew : 

“ ‘ Elsie, I know where Felix Munro, your sweet- 
heart is.’ As I uttered these words, her eyes brightened, 
evincing a keen, though still puzzled interest. 

“ ‘ Felix Munro, Elsie’s sweetheart, is away from 
home, searching for Elsie.’ 

“ She lay quiet and thoughtful for a time, and then 
shaking her head, while a hopeless look invaded her 
face, she spoke as if to herself : ‘He can never find 
me. He can never find this awful place where I am. If 
he were to come to this very island, they would not tell 
him where I am ; the people in this dreadful place 
never speak, not even to one another.’ And she moaned 
piteously, while great tears ran down her temples. 

“ I answered quickly, as I lifted and chafed her hand : 
‘ Why, Elsie, you are at home now. Don’t you see ? 
You are in your own room. See, here is Hortense; 
and Felix will come. I have sent a message, telling 


BROKEN LIVES. 1 75 

him that you have come back home and are waiting for 
him to come. He will be here soon, Elsie.’ 

“ The look of eager joy came again, as she answered, 
‘ Oh, does he know I am home? Will he come? I must, 
I must see him ! He is my Felix, my own, my own 
dear boy.’ And she began to weep again. 

“ Telling Hortense to sit where Elsie could not see 
her, for a little while, 1 withdrew ; for I was anxious 
that she should talk no more then. But I was pleased 
to see her weep. Not only because of what it indicated, 
but also because of its effect ; there is no medicine that 
can supply the place of tears in such a case.” 

The doctor paused. I stretched forth my hand and 
grasped his. I could only say : 

“ Thanks, ten thousand thanks !” 

He pressed my hand gently, and tears filled his 
great, kindly brown eyes. 

“ Leave me, now ; leave me to dwell upon what you 
have said,” I whispered, and pressing again silently my 
hand, he went away. 

Day after day Hortense or her husband would 
come, bringing a word of comfort and hope. And while 
they were careful not to say so in words, yet what they 
imparted none the less certified me that my darling-’s 
mind was waxing clearer and stronger ; though she still 
believed herself but just returned from long captivity 
on an island in some distant sea ; even at times describ- 
ing the appearance of the island, and of its tongueless 
inhabitants. 

For myself I was rid of the fever; and but for my 
crazy head would have been quite able to quit my bed. 

Though the longing in my soul to go to Elsie was 
like a consuming hunger, I was yet sustained by such 
patience as amazed my friends and caused them no 
slight anxiety. They were not sure of my mental state, 
in view of this behavior. 

Each day I tested the state of my head, being care- 
ful to do so in the absence of the doctor, who constantly 
admonished me to be quiet and give nature a chance. 
At last I ventured to rise and walk about ray room ; 
and was pleased to find myself able to maintain my 
equipoise. 


;6 


BROKEN LIVES. 


Elsie’s apartments and my own were widely sep- 
arated, being in different wings of the great house. But 
I had begun to form the design to go by stealth and 
look upon her face. I knew that in such weather the 
doors of her room would be left open. 

As I walked about my room now — it was evening — 
I resolved to carry out my purpose, this very night. 
Impatient for the hour to come, I returned to my bed 
and had scarcely composed myself, when Hortense 
knocked. I bade her come in. As she approached, I 
saw in her sisterly face an expression that sent my 
blood bounding. 

She tried to be very natural and composed, and suc- 
ceeded in being very unnatural and flustered. She took 
my proffered hand nervously, and seating herself, lifted 
it to her lips, and kissed it again and again, absently, 
and then sat patting it gently while she looked at me, 
with great tears in her eyes. 

“ What is it, sister ? Please don’t sit there looking 
like that, and keeping me waiting with my heart in my 
throat,” I said, my voice choked to a whisper. 

“Why, what; what do you mean, Felix?” she 
answered, affecting surprise. 

“ Ah, Hortense, Hortense ; try to fool me after all 
these years of looking into your face for tidings. Do 
go on — do !” 

She* dropped her head, still caressing my hand, as 
she asked confusedly 

“ Did you hear anything, Felix? Any noise? any 
sound ?” 

“Why, no; what was it? What do you mean!” 1 
cried, rising bolt upright, forgetting that Hortense did 
not know that I could hold my head up. 

“ Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t do that way !” she pleaded, 
as she tried to force me down. 

“ Hortense, leave me alone !” I entreated, impa- 
tiently. “ You and that husband of yours have bullied 
me until I am afraid to move, in your presence. If I 
must confess it and get scolded, 1 tell you I had been 
up, walking about my room just before you came in. 
Now, sit down and tell me what it is, before you compel 
me to go and find out for myself !” 


BROKEN LIVES. 


1 77 


She sat down, and having overcome somewhat, 
her surprise, went on, assuming again an air of 
unimportance : 

“ I thought maybe, you might have heard the 
piano.” 

“ What, Elsie’s piano? the one in her room?” I in- 
terrupted. “ Oh, Hortense, did she play? Oh, tell me 
she did, sister, and see the windows of heaven open to 
a soul that has lain through hopeless years as through a 
starless night !” 

“ No, no, Felix. No, no ; she did not play — not quite 
that,” she answered, half alarmed. 

“ Oh, Hortense, what could be but ‘not quite that,’ 
and not suffice to lift my weary, waiting soul into the 
uttermost heaven !” I cried, confusedly. “ Go on ! Go 
on !” I added. “ I am mad to interrupt such tidings!” 

“It is only this, Felix: Elsie asked me to sing that 
song you used, .after uncle’s death, to love to hear her 
sing, ‘ The Mystical Isle,’ you called it, though perhaps 
that is not its name. And though I had not played the 
accompaniment for so long, I went to the piano and 
began, and when I reached that stanza beginning, 

“ ‘There are hands that are waved when that fairy shore,’ 

I heard her voice, low and plaintive, but pure and sweet 
as of old, joining in the song. I could sing no more, 
my voice was so choked ; but she went on and sang it 
through, and when a moment later I quitted the piano 
and returned to the bed, she lay with her hands clasped, 
her eyes looking upward, and her face radiant as if she 
beheld some heavenly vision.” 

As Hortense ended her voice was drowned in tears. 
For myself, only my soul lived, and to it the gates of 
heaven were indeed open. 

I was quiet so very long that Hortense, becoming 
alarmed, arose and bent over me, calling my name. 

I was afraid to speak. I motioned her to leave me. 
She sank back into the chair and sat, I know not how 
long ; then arose, and after looking at me again for a 
moment, stole noiselessly out. 

A clock in a distant steeple was striking the hour of 


i7» 


BROKEN LIVES. 


ten, when after a sleep (or was it trance ?) in which I 
saw the angels ascending and descending, I awoke. I 
arose, opened the door, and peered cautiously about. 
Then stepping without, looked up and down the wide 
corridor. A dim light which only served to add to the 
oppressive stillness, burned at the farthest end. I 
moved forward, slowly, supporting my feeble steps by 
leaning with one hand against the wall. I reached the 
narrow, unlighted passage, leading to the other wing, 
and midway it, stopped to rest. My heart was beating 
violently, and my head was growing unsteady. But I 
had not much farther to go ; so, moving on more slowly, 
I reached the corridor, at the end of which were Elsie’s 
rooms. But soon the dizziness had increased till I was 
obliged to pause. I sank down and leaned against the 
wall. As I sat there, scarcely seeing, I heard the notes 
of the piano, as if touched lightly, and in a moment the 
voice of Hortense, singing in strains so low that they 
were scarcely audible. I crawled on, leaning heavily 
on the wall, and in a moment was at a point from which 
I could see the door of Elsie’s room. It was open. 

I knew that a few feet further on and in the recess 
of the door of the nurse’s room I could see Elsie’s bed 
from head to foot. I crawled thither, and hid myself 
within the deep recess, but for the moment was too 
blind to see. 

I could still hear the low, plaintive notes of the 
piano and the soft voice of Hortense, singing the song 
she had sung in the evening. She had reached the very 
stanza of which she had spoken, when clear and unmis- 
takable arose the voice of Elsie, its notes as pure and 
faultless as of old : 

“ There are hands that are waved when that fairy shore 
By mirage is lifted in air, 

And we sometimes hear through its turbulent roar, 

Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, 

When the wind down the river is fair.” 

With a great effort, I lifted my head and looked, 
and lo! there against a bank of pillows reclined Elsie. 

Ah! she had indeed come home, and I had looked 
upon her face again. 


BROKEN LIVES. 1 79 

I crawled back along the wall and into the dark and 
narrow passage. 

A half hour later, the Doctor having failed to find 
me in my bed, came this way in search of me. He 
helped me to my room, and on hearing my story, said 
not a word, but going to the window stood looking out 
into the darkness. 

Somehow the sight of Elsie had wrought a strange 
transformation in me. I lay as if in a trance of ecstasy. 
Nothing disturbed, nothing vexed me. My friends did 
not appear to understand this, and talked more and 
more of Elsie and her state. I heard all they said, 
eagerly, but asked few questions. My darling had come 
back from captivity , and my soul was satisfied. 

At length I was able to arise and dress myself, and 
to walk about the corridors. It was the afternoon of 
the third day of my being about, when the Doctor and 
Hortense came in, their faces full of an unusual aspect. 
They sat one on each side of me, each holding a hand. 

The Doctor’s voice quavered as he spoke: 

“ Felix, we have told her that you are to arrive this 
evening, and she is expecting you with restless eager- 
ness.” 

“Yes,” interjected Hortense, “she has gone to the 
window twenty times since hearing that you would 
come to-night, and looking down the street, toward the 
river, clasped her hands so pathetically that I could not 
bear to look at her.” 

“My dear, why speak of that to Felix?” expostu- 
lated the Doctor. 

I felt the blood receding to my heart, and the bells 
jangled again, and I closed my eyes, praying Heaven 
to grant me courage, when, as thrice before in great 
exigencies, the voice of my mother whispered as if she 
stood at my side : “ Remember your father’s integrity 
and courage, my son,” and it stilled my perturbed 
blood, even as the voice of the Christ stilled the waters 
of the storm-smitten sea. I opened my eyes and looked 
at my companions with an expression that surprised 
and gladdened the heart of Hortense, for I heard the 
whispered ejaculation : “ Thank God ! ” 


i8o 


BROKEN LIVES. 


“ Doctor, Hortense,” I began, “ have you reflected 
upon this meeting? Of the effect my present appear- 
ance may have on her poor, sensitive mind and heart? 
Have you reflected of the Felix she is expecting? 

“ Bring me that picture, taken just before she was 
carri d away,’’ I went on, turning to Hortense. She 
brou e ht it. 

“Look!” I continued; “there^’is the lover she is 
expecting. Look at that fresh, boy face, the happiest 
on which the sun, in all his journey about the earth, 
shone. Look at that hair, hanging to the shoulders, 
and lustrous as the mane of an Arabian steed. Look at 
those eyes that, even through this imperfect art, shine 
like stars. Look upon that full, smooth, unwrinkled, 
seamless, joyous face!” And then turning the picture 
down, I went on : “ Now, look upon this figure ! ” 

But they could not; they were blind with tears. 

I awaited, quietly, tearlessly, for their emotions to 
subside. 

“True,” I resumed, less pathetically. “True, my 
hair is long now, as then; but see, it is all streaked with 
gray, and sparse and lusterless as the hair of one 
stricken in years. And look ye, on this face ; well-nigh 
fleshless, seamed and hard. And my eyes ; they wear 
the aspect seen in the pictures of the tenants of dun- 
geons, who have passed through *the ordeal of fire,’ or 
been broken on the ‘ wheel.’ ” 

And then after some pause I resumed, for my com- 
panions were speechless: 

“Ah! she must not look upon my face at once; it 
would surely drive back her returning reason into night 
and oblivion. There must, I tell you, be little or no 
light when I meet her. She must hear my voice, and 
it alas, has lost its resonance and music, and is queru- 
lous, I fear me. But 1 must speak with her, prepare 
her somewhat for the apparition, the ghost of her lover, 
on which she must at last, but not at once, look.” 

It was so agreed, and my friends took their leave, 
while I, exhausted by the scene, threw myself upon my 
bed and fell into a disturbed and fitful sleep. 

When I awoke, the sun was behind the trees, and a 


BROKEN LIVES. 


181 


gentle breeze, bearing the odor of flowers, blew through 
my room. 

I proceeded about my toilet. Ah ! with what anx- 
ious care did I adjust each garment and smooth my 
hair, painfully striving to restore somewhat of the ap- 
pearance of other days, taking the likeness for my 
guide. But at the end, the portrait simply mocked me. 
I fancied I could see an insuppressible smile upon the 
smooth young face; and in my perplexity I flung it far 
from me. 

But now began to grow within my soul an impatient 
longing. Would the darkness never come? 

It did come at last, laying its sable wing upon all 
the earth, for it was a moonless night. 

And then the Doctor came to accompany me, leav- 
ing Hortense with Elsie. 

We started ; at first quite rapidly, but as we entered 
the narrow passage connecting the two wings, my heart 
fainted within me as the bells jangled again ; the very 
thing the Doctor had anticipated, and had caused a 
lounge to be placed there. I lay down while my com- 
panion administered a draught of wine. This strength- 
ened me, and I arose and moved forward. But as we 
reached the door of her room, my knees smote each 
other and I leaned heavily upon my friend. Through 
the transom shone a light, but so dim as to show only 
the merest outline of an object. 

At length, not allowing myself to think or reflect, I 
opened the door and entered, speaking her name as I 
did so : “ Elsie — darling ! ° 

“ Felix, my own, my own dear Felix ! ” she faltered, 
and she was lying once more upon my heart, her dear 
arms embracing me. 

I have said before, I believe, that there are times 
when speech is sacrilege, and grates upon the ear like 
discords in the music of a harp. We were silent. No 
sound broke the stillness save only the sobs of Hor- 
tense, as taking her husband’s arm they quitted the 
room, leaving us alone. 

An hour later, Hortense entered, and at a sign from 
me turned the light up ; and Elsie reclining upon many 


182 


BROKEN LIVES. 


pillows, looked calmly upon my face for a long mo- 
ment, then murmured, but loud enough for Hortense 
to hear: 

“ My darling boy ! ” 

And Hortense was not surprised, for joy had trans- 
figured my countenance, driving from it all the scars 
and seams. 

******* 

On the following May-day — a day on which the 
heavens were full of suns and the earth of blossoms and 
perfume, standing beneath an arch of flowers, from the 
center whereof hung an anchor of roses, Elsie became 
my wife, and all the bells of the city rang. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

RETURN — REMORSE— DESPAIR — DEATH. THE END. 

It was on a golden autumn afternoon, seven years 
later, that Elsie and I sat in the library, the scene of so 
much of sorrow and of joy — and the one spot dearest 
to our hearts. I was reading aloud, while she, her 
eyes bent lovingly upon my face, listened in rapt atten- 
tion, when an officer was ushered in. He informed me 
that there was at the “ Friendly Inn ” a person urgent 
to see me. 

This inn had been in large part endowed by the 
munificence of my wife, as a memorial of her escape 
from captivity. And I had so often aided the inmates 
there, that I supposed, naturally, that the person was 
one seeking alms. I asked the officer whom I knew for 
a discreet man, if 1 might not send some money by him. 
He was reluctant to take it. He was quite sure that 
the man did not seek pecuniary aid. “ He says,’’ pro- 
ceeded the officer, “ he must see you before he dies.” 
I looked at my wife. Her eyes were full of compas- 
sion, as she said in accents of pity: “ Go, Felix.” This 
was enough. I drove at once to the inn. 


BROKEN LIVES. 


183 


I was shown into the reception room, where, in an 
invalid’s chair, sat a man apparently in the last stage of 
pulmonary consumption. He wore the aspect of pre- 
mature age. His hair, hanging about his shoulders, 
and his beard of great length, and both showing evi- 
dence of scrupulous care, were white as wool. He was 
gigantic in stature, but his frame was fleshless. But 
for his hair and the great, blue veins on brow and 
hands, he would have had the appearance of a skeleton 
— a skeleton, with eyes. And such eyes! Great, dark 
globes, and shining with an almost appalling light. 

The appearance of the man was so striking and 
impressive, that it arrested and held me dumb. The 
matron of the Inn sat in the room with him. 

“This is the gentleman whom you sent the officer 
to fetch,” she said. 

A look of disappointment passed across the skeleton 
face and shone in the eyes. 

“ No, no,” he answered in a hollow voice that almost 
stopped my breath. “ No, no ; the gentleman I wish to 
see is the lawyer; a man little above thirty in years. I 
am sorry,” he went on, addressing me, “ to have 
troubled you, sir; but I gave explicit instructions as to 
the person I desire to see.” 

I stepped forward, removing my hat, and took a 
seat near him. “I am,” 1 said, “the only person of 
my name, lawyer or layman, in the city.” 

As I began to speak, he started, bending on me a 
gaze which thrilled me. 

“ O my God ! ” he cried in that unearthly voice, and 
clasping his hands. “ It cannot be ! Surely this cannot 
be he who was the youth I knew!” And his bosom 
heaved, and his whole frame shook, as the tears ran 
down his bony cheeks, into his white beard. 

“ So old,” he went on ; “ so broken, so gray ! his face 
so marked and seamed with care ; and yet he never 
harmed a human being, not even me whom he ought 
to have slain, but was too merciful ! ” 

“Ah, yes! ” I groaned. 

“ O my God ! ” he went on, as if I had not spoken ; 
“ I had hoped for pardon till now ; but no, no, my sin is 


BROKEN LIVES. 


184 

unpardonable. I am a million times worse than a mur- 
derer. It would have been benign pity to have slain 
them outright. But ah, no, I was not manly and gen- 
erous enough to do that; I must murder them by 
inches; must drive the innocent girl whom he had 
loved and who had loved him from childhood, to de- 
spair and madness. 

“ Ah, madame,” he continued, turning toward the 
matron ; “ I did all this ! I, the wicked, the heartless 
Castelar, did this worse than murderous deed ! And 
yet have hoped for mercy — for pardon! Why, I 
doubted the existence of God, of heaven, of hell, until 
I saw the enormity of my crime against these loving 
hearts. Then I knew there must be a hell; a place, a 
state somewhere, to punish such offence. And like a 
coward, I thought to escape my desert. For two years 
I have endeavored to reach this city that I might im- 
plore your pardon, your forgiveness, sir. But now 
that 1 see you, my wretched heart fails me. How shall 
I ask mercy, who showed none ! ” 

He paused, panting for breath ; but still he wept, 
while his great chest rose and fell like an angry sea. 

I could not speak. I shame to confess it ; but at the 
moment I could scarcely restrain myself from falling 
upon, and rending him. 

I found myself nervously fingering my knife under 
an impulse to slay him. In a devilish frenzy, I fairly 
gloated on his agony, and was conscious of looking 
upon him with a sort of savage joy, as his bosom 
swelled, and his speech was interrupted by a painful, 
hollow cough that wrenched his great frame. 

He went on : 

“ When she saw me appear in the boat, she was 
seized with despair, and flew from me, and before I 
could arrest her, had thrown herself into the river. My 
men were out in boats searching for her companion, 
who had escaped. I threw myself in after her, but was 
unable to rescue her. I supposed she had drowned.” 

He paused again. 

“ Rescue her, you damned fiend ! Rescue her, you 
hell-deserving wretch! Ten thousand times I have 


BROKEN LIVES. 


185 


thanked Heaven that you did not rescue her !” I cried, 
in my impotent rage. But on noting the aspect of his 
lace now, I stopped. 

Lifting his trembling hands and extending them to- 
ward me, while his eyes shone with a light unearthly, 
he cried in piteous accents: 

“ Oh, thank you, sir ! Thanks, ten thousand thanks 
for these words ! Oh, sir, pour upon my accursed head 
every malediction which tongue has framed since the 
dawn of speech, and I will bless you for it !” 

Then tearing apart the garments which covered 
his surging bosom, he entreated : 

“ Oh, sir, if you will but slay me now, late as it is, 
my life may atone somewhat my unutterable crime! 
Please withhold not your avenging hand! Please 
strike !” 

Seeing that I drew back, his whole manner changed, 
as still with bosom bared, he went on in a voice almost 
fierce in its despair: 

“ I appeal to you by the memory of the love you 
bore that sweet girl, whom I tore from your embrace 
and drove to despir, to hopeless madness and a linger- 
ing death, to strike, if you are not a miserable craven, 
and unworthy the love that angel bore you! 

“Ah, you will not? I am denied even the consolation 
of being slain at the hand of him I have undone ! But 
if you will not strike, will you not pray for me? Oh, 
will you not ask God to forgive me? He will hear you. 
He must hear you ; though to me the heavens are brass 
and His ears deaf !” 

He struggled to rise, but had not strength. 

The suffering and remorse of the dying wretch 
moved my soul to pity. I remembered, now, that it 
had been about the time of her restoration, widely pub- 
lished that Elsie had died, and that the story of her 
death had been accompanied with many details of her 
insanity and its cause. I think the discovery that Cast- 
elar had seen this story and therefore suffered the more 
on account of it, served to appease somewhat my anger 
and bitterness. 

For the moment 1 forgot his great crime and 


186 


BROKEN LIVES. 


thought only of his agony ; and that shortly he must 
render account to One who can make no mistakes, 
and to whom vengeance belongeth. If this was undue 
tenderness, be it so. From the best and bravest of 
mothers, I inherited the inestimable patrimony of a 
compassionate heart. 

“ I need to pray for myself, sir, after the awful emo- 
tions the sight of you has stirred within my soul,” I 
said, humbly. “ A moment ago, v I went on, “ I longed 
to slay you. I should be a fool, however, to do so, 
were I even wicked enough, and I fear I am — since 
your sufferings are infinitely greater than would be the 
brief pangs of dying. No, no, I suffered you to escape 
then; I will not stain my hands and soul with your 
blood now, when to do so will prevent nothing, retrieve 
nothing. But I am human, and you cannot blame me 
if I can look upon your agony with slight pity.” 

“ I do not blame you! No, no, I thank you sir, for 
every word which may add one pang to my suffering,” 
he answered. And then struggling to arise, he went 
on with more vehemence than ever: 

“ Oh, my God, what have I not suffered ! Look at 
my hair, my beard, my wrinkled face, my bent form, 
my fleshless frame; and yet, I am little older in years 
than yourself. Think not that I speak to arouse your 
pity. No, no; I wish you to believe that though I be- 
haved like one, I am not a fiend! My crime wrought 
my own ruin more effectually than yours. I was t a 
millionaire ; within a year I was penniless ! I had 
palaces; in less than a year I was homeless — a wanderer, 
a vagabond ! I had friends who would have died for 
me ; in a day I was friendless, a tramp, a beggar ! For 
nine years I have not seen the face of a friend, nor felt 
the grasp of a friendly hand in mine. Seven years ago 
I came hither, disguised. Day after day I saw you lead 
her forth ; saw your patient, loving care of her. Twice 
I tried to go to you, throw myself at your feet and pray 
your forgiveness, but had not the courage. I deter- 
mined to surrender myself into the custody of the law, 
but at the last moment, shrank from that. 

“ I was about to go away, when a longing that con- 


BROKEN LIVES. 


187 

sumed me and would take no denial, seized me — a long- 
ing to look upon her face again. Oh, I was mad, sir! 
Night after night I lurked in the grounds about 
her home. At last, as if Pity herself had pleaded my 
cause and had prevailed, the hour had come. She was 
left alone, sleeping. In a moment I was bending over 
her, gazing into her face, placid and beautiful as the 
face of an angel. I hoped, I prayed that you might, 
discovering, slay me. But, ah, my hated presence 
frightened from her even the blessed angel of sleep. 
She awoke, suddenly. For a brief moment she looked 
into my accursed face. The terror it inspired in her 
poor heart sufficed to put even her madness to flight. 
You know, alas, too well, what followed. I had 
completed the work begun long before. I had murdered 
her. 

“ After days of hiding, half starved and utterly hope- 
less I wandered away again, longing to die. Even 
death fled my approach, though I sought him in all his 
lurking places. At last nothing but continued life or 
suicide remained. I shrank from suicide for fear of its 
consequences. 

“ Two years ago consumption laid hoia on me ; and 
as if it were a child of my loins, I have nourished it. 

“ I have waded streams through floating ice, faced 
the most violent storms, inhaled, ah, reveled for days, 
in deadly miasma, through which other men, wearing 
amulets, charms and defences, hasten with bated breath. 
And yet sir, and yet my cruel and accursed heart throbs 
on, as if immortal flesh, or living adamant, and mv 
blood molten steel !” 

As he finished with great effort, and with eyes that 
seemed starting from their sockets, this awful recital, 
he was falling forward. I sought to stay the fall, but 
could not reach him in time, to more than partially 
break its severity. 

He lay on his side gasping, while I still essayed to 
aid him. 

“ Leave me! Leave me!” he gasped. 

“ Touch me not, with your pure and stainless hands. 
But if you can, Felix (if I may speak your name 


1 88 


BROKEN LIVES. 


again), forgive me ! Ask God to forgive me ! Ask her 
gentle spirit — ” 

But he could not finish ; he was dying. 

“ I forgive you, Otto Castelar ; I forgive you with 
all my heart,” I faltered, kneeling beside him. 

But ere I had ended, he was dead. 
******* 

When I returned home, the night had fallen, and 
Elsie sat in the library awaiting me. She arose as I en- 
tered, and came toward me saying, her voice full of 
compassion : 

“ Ah, my dear, I trust you were able to comfort the 
poor wretch.” But just then the light fell fairly upon 
my face. At sight of it, her own blanched to deadly 
whiteness, and she would have fallen had 1 not taken 
her in my arms. 

Helping her into the easy chair she had just quitted, 
I kneeled at her side, taking her hands in mine and 
smiling, ghastly enough, no doubt, into her face. 

It was some moments before she could speak, and 
when at last she did, there was a shadow of the old 
terror in her eyes : 

“ O Felix, it was he! v she whispered. 

“Yes; and he is dead! Dead of remorse!” I fal- 
tered. 

And in all the days of the years that she lived after 
her return from captivity, never, save this once, did 
either of us speak of Otto Castelar. 

(Signed.) Felix Munro. 

Terra Alta , A. D. 1886. 


THE END. 


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